Hold Back
by Rakal
Summary: It's really funny, you know? You almost die a couple of times and nobody cares anymore, but then you almost die in a different way, and suddenly everybody's flocking around you and not letting up. [Kyle's POV.]
1. Calm Before the Storm

_I should probably clarify a few things up here first (plus I'd really like to, because I'm obsessive like that). The number one thing is that this story contains both **slash** and **het** pairings, so, uh, ye have been warned or something like that. No bitching against me for that, okay? Okay. Nothing of any graphic nature though, I'm not into that kind of stuff, kthx. _

_That being said! This is my first South Park fanfiction, as well as my first fanfiction involving actual pairings – hooray! I know things are starting off really slow here, but with all the stuff I've managed to think up for this thing, and with the lack of filler I've managed to think up, it should really, really pick up pace. Well, I hope it does. That would add to the angst and anybody who knows me knows that I'm an angst fanatic. Also, to anybody who doesn't know me in the fanfiction area yet, my past two attempts at multi-chapter fics FAILED due to slacking which was followed by lack of interest, so, just saying, my updates won't necessarily be speedy, and I may never even finish this and the whole thing might get deleted. I'm hoping that's not the case but hey, you never know. Fair warning._

_Established a few things in this chapter (I guess it's also more of an introduction to the time where I've set it up to), like the ages and the whole hat thing. Picked the age because a) it's around my age group, b) it's when hormones really start to have a good time fucking around with you, and c) it's an age where you're still partially defenseless, I think I mentioned that somewhere down there. As for the hat thing, well, yeah, felt the need to stick that in when originally writing this and couldn't think of a way to successfully remove it (besides, **every** time I've read a South Park fanfiction, I've pictured Stan and Kyle with their hats on. I just have a hard time picturing them without them, and I'm trying to stay close to some canon aspects of the show). Also, some of the best friend relations are loosely based on relations with my own best friend. Figured that deserved a mentioning._

_One last thing, as if you can't already tell from this introduction already – I. RAMBLE. This is my first time writing from a first person view point, therefore, the chances of the character rambling are FREAKIN' HIGH. Yup. …Enjoy!_

* * *

You know those feelings you sometimes get, when your stomach clenches up on you and it gets harder to breathe and it's like you want and need to puke but you can't because there's no opening? When you get all of this perspiration clinging all over your body and you just squeeze your eyes tight and beg for another mouthful of air, just one more mouthful at the least? When you can't feel anything and everything fades out and you just go all rigid and stiff? 

I don't, and I hope I never do, although at this point it feels like I'm about to find out.

It's sorta like a flashback; I think I'm unconscious right now. It'd be more like a flashback if I could actually see or depict anything clearly, but I can't. Maybe my mind is purposefully trying to suppress this but this memory just wants to rear its ugly head and force itself down my throat. Great. Memory in my throat but no air, that's just what I need.

God damn, this is pretty realistic for a flashback. I think this is a flashback. I sure hope it is. In my mind's eye it's dark out and in my mind's senses it's cold. It's not terribly cold, though. I mean, I've lived in South Park all my life and we typically only get one snow-free month a year so I'm used to it, but still, I guess it's cold. And snowy. I think it's December… yeah, December.

And then I collapse and it's colder. Oh, it's snow. In my mind I'm lying face down in the snow and—paralyzed! That's it! That's a better description of that feeling. With fear I'm assuming considering the breathing difficulties. It would make sense, really, especially if I've been injured in some way. I mean you don't tend to just collapse and not move yet know very well where you are if you're not hurt. At least I think so. Wait…

I faintly hear a hissing noise above me and footsteps trudging through the snow. Judging by the sound of it all I'm assuming it's some adult male, but I don't really care right now. What I do care about it why does my left arm suddenly feel warm? And sticky? Why do I feel something sticky?

Goddamnit, flashback, the least you could do give me all or nothing. I don't like this mid-way shit.

* * *

I feel myself slowly fade back to the real world and open my eyes slowly. It's dark in here, but there are some machines emitting a soft glow. One of them is beeping. It's a slow, steady, consistent beeping that's annoying the hell out of me. I want to smash it but I feel too woozy to do anything right now but try to get a sense of where I am. 

After waiting there for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes, I try to prop myself up so I can get a better look around, but my left arm is refusing to move without causing me some sort of pain. My right arm is working fine, though, so I use that one. It's not a great view but it's better than simply lying down on that bed. The first thing I notice is that my hat's not on my head, and after looking around a bit, I see it on a nightstand next to me. The hell? Why's it off? I grab it and put it back on my head before continuing to look around. I still feel pretty groggy.

This thing is probably, like, ten years old by now, but it's still in good condition. I don't really care what anybody says: I like my hat, I hate my hair, I wear my hat to hide my hair. It's less afro-y now but I still hate it. I'm fourteen and I still wear this thing, but nobody really makes a comment on it, and even if anybody did, I wouldn't really care. Stan still wears his more often than not. Cartman wears his on occasion. Kenny never really had an actual hat, so he doesn't count.

Out of the four of us I've grown the least, so it still fits me perfectly, anyway, albeit a bit more snug than when I was eight or nine. Stan is right behind me when it comes to not growing so much so he's got pretty much the same deal. Besides, we barely took them off when we were kids. Why now? Everything else is still basically the same, except Kenny's understandable now and you can see more than his eyes and he doesn't die so often, so why not keep hold to the past when it's there? We're still kids, I guess. I mean, fourteen-fifteen isn't really that old. I know I'm not on top of the world and I know I'm not invincible and I _know_ that I'm still pretty darn young. I know that I'm still a kid and that tons of things are bound to happen and I'll be powerless to stop any of it. Maybe that's why I'm here now? Ehh, who knows.

The next thing I notice is that this isn't my room, and I'm wearing a light blue hospital gown. …Hospital gown. Well, that explains the machines and that irritating beeping. But fuck, the hospital? I despise Hell's Pass and I hate hospitals in general. I've been in here tons of times, most of them for myself, and only occasionally for one of my friends. I kept contracting these sicknesses and illnesses when I was younger. You'd think that by now they'd have given me my own permanent room; I've been in here enough. Nobody really cares when I'm in here anymore; it's just another regular occurrence. "Oh. Kyle's in the hospital? What is it for _this_ time?" Everybody treats it like that.

Now that I know where I am, there's really nothing else to inspect. For the love of god, though, I wish that machine would shut the fuck up. And I want a clock. I wanna know what time it is. It's still dark outside so it must be night or early, early morning. I'm not really quite sure which and I don't really care, fact is, I'm wide awake now so I won't be going back to sleep anytime soon.

I wonder how long I've been unconscious? And what happened to land me in here this time? Common sense is telling me that it has something to do with my left arm but it's too dark to really see anything.

There's a bit of light that I can see from the crack under my door. Well, I've got nothing else to do, I might as well stare at it and wait for it to open, and when that happens, I can find out what's going on. I could probably get up and switch the light on in here to take a look, but I don't feel like it. It's like when you know you're wide awake but just don't feel like getting out of bed because you really see no point. Besides, I think it'd be best if I didn't, anyway. I mean I never know what could be wrong with me this time so it's safer.

I'm not quite sure how long it's been, but suddenly it starts to creak open. It takes me a couple of seconds to register this. I've probably been half-asleep, or something—but holy shit dude! Don't… don't just suddenly open up like that, gah! (Man, I sorta feel like Tweek now.) It's still dark out. Who's coming in here? A nurse, or the doctor, finally? Oh christ, my heart is pounding. I wish I'd calm down. Craaap…

Well, no sense in worrying needlessly. I peer over the bed at the figure entering – it's Stan. Stan? Oh, okay, now I can calm down. Stan's nothing to worry about.

"Kyle? Kyle, are you in here? Are you awake?" he calls out, keeping his voice low. I have no idea why. Common sense once again jumps in to tell me that it's still dark out and people are probably trying to sleep.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here, Stan," I answer. "Hey, do you know what time it is?"

He looks down at the ground in thought. "Uh, I think it's, like 5:30 in the morning. It's Monday. Kyle, what happened to you this time?"

I sigh. Typical way to phrase the question, but I guess I'm used to it by now. "I actually don't know; I just kinda woke up in here after this weird dream thing. Monday morning—Stan, what the hell are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep," he replies, shrugging. I can accept that answer, sort of – since the two of us are best friends and so close, it's been typical of us that whenever one of us can't sleep, we just go to the other's house, sneak into their room, wake them up and just sorta talk or sit there or whatever it's like. We're good enough friends that we're perfectly comfortable with just sitting there together if need be, enjoying the other's company. It's been going on long enough that it's no longer surprising when your sleep is suddenly disturbed and you look up to see your best friend's face, or even vice versa, but nobody has ever really found out yet that we've been doing this.

"Okay, but then how did you know to—"

"Let me finish," he says, holding up his hand. I close my mouth. He continues, "I was just about at your house, coming around the back way, when I heard your front door open. Peaked around the corner and your parents and Ike were getting out and into their car. Ike – he's really loud, by the way – was asking, 'Kyle's in the hospital? I didn't know he was sick,' and your mom looked pretty worried and pissed at the same time, and then they drove off, so that's how I knew to come here."

"Oh."

"Yeah. You know I had to sneak in here? Your parents were getting briefed, your brother was asleep, and the hospital still enforces the rule of only family members being allowed to visit until a certain time period."

I sigh. "I know. I hate that rule so much. I'd much rather take seeing my friends over my family first. Hey, could you turn on the light? I wanna see what's up with my arm."

Stan obliges and I pull the covers off to take a look. He joins me. It's definitely not a pretty sight. It's really bloody and I think I can see some stitches running along there—holy _shit_. That is a long one wound. It runs from about halfway between my shoulder and elbow to my wrist. Stan voices my thoughts out loud, and adds a redundant, "Eww. It's all dried up and caked around your arm. Sick, dude." Now is about the time that I'm thankful he doesn't have as weak of a stomach anymore.

"I know! Arg, what the fuck? How the hell did _this_ happen?"

"Where the hell were you? What were you _doing_?" my best friend demands.

"I don't know!" I cry, pressing my fingers to my temples. "Look, dude, I feel dizzy and weak and just like crap in general, I'm in a goddamned hospital, and I just had the creepiest scene _ever_ in my head not too long ago, I can't remember _anything_. Did you hear anything from that 'briefing' shit?" I mean, come on, all I know so far is that my arm is a bloody mess. If Stan at least heard something then maybe I can make more of the situation.

He bites his lower lip in pause, probably to think. "Uh, uh…" he struggles about, trying to recall anything, I'm assuming, "Uh… I think I just heard something about a 'great deal of blood loss.'"

I flop back and emit a soft groan. "Whoopee. Now I can totally piece this whole thing together."

"Err… sorry?" he 'apologizes,' but I think it's more of a confused tone, like when you have no clue what the hell you're supposed to say so you just say what seems to be the most appropriate to the current situation. And then cue awkward silence.

I wave my hand off, dismissing the apology. "Nah… nah, ignore me, I'm just venting." His mouth takes on an 'o' shape but other than that, nothing. After that it falls quiet and it's kinda like there's this silent tension between the two of us. It's not the calm, peaceful… well, sappy silences that we sometimes share just because we're best friends and all. It's like there's some hesitation on both of our ends, although I can't figure out how or why.

Stan walks over to one of the chairs that are conveniently placed to the side of the room (he turns the light back off on the way) and sits down, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. I'm still feeling kind of drained so my eyes merely flit over in his general direction; I can't be bothered to lift my head up from the pillow.

He looks like he's just staring off into space, like, his eyes look unfocused. If I didn't know him as well as I do then I'd have thought he was glaring at the wall opposite, but that's not the kind of expression he glares with. That's Stan's thoughtful expression. Eyes focused and looking slightly downwards, lower lip jutting out a bit in some sort of mini-pout, brows a bit furrowed. I wonder what he's thinking about right now. Usually I'm the one who just lapses off and begins to ponder the most random thing; Stan does it just about as much as Cartman does, and knowing the fatass, that's next to never. Then again I guess that this is my probably the closest thing to a near-death experience that I've had for a few years now.

I don't like this silence. How long does it take to brief a family, anyway? Is whatever happened to me really that horrible? Crap. I want a conversation.

"Hey, Stan?"

He jerks forward at the sound of my voice, and I can't help but feel bad that I ruined his reverie. A few moments pass before he answers back with a breathless, "Yeah?"

I feel a light blush come across my face and try to form out a calm, cool, and collected sentence, but only succeed in, "Oh… uh… It… it's Monday, right? Don't we—you—uhh, oh, you know… have school today?"

The fifteen-year-old boy to the left of me glances up at the roof for a brief moment. "Oh, uh, yeah. I guess so."

"Are you going to tell Cartman and Kenny what happened?"

"As much as I know."

"…You're not going to tell anybody else, are you?" I don't know. I just don't want rumours to get started and spread around. Being a freshman already sucks enough, but I don't really need any more troubles to go along with it. Exams are supposed to be coming up, anyway. That's enough for me, thanks.

Stan blinks in confusion. "Err… no… why? Do you want me to?"

"No!" I cry out, and then, realizing that it's still fairly early in the morning, fix that with a, "No, no, don't bother. It's fine."

"Okay."

And the awkward silence comes back. Goddamnit. My mind is blank right now, which is usually a rarity for me. I mean, I'm supposed to be the smart, always thinking kid, the one who over-analyzes every subject and can never just seem to get to the point and look at the basic message. I guess that comes in handy sometimes, but most of the time, it's a really bothersome trait.

I look back over and see that Stan doesn't have his thoughtful expression anymore, but more of an empty, blank one. I think it's pretty safe to say that he isn't a morning person, but I definitely am. It's just about as annoying as my over-analyzing thing, since nobody else I know seems to be able to get up at the crack of dawn and stay completely awake. Sometimes I'm grateful for this, since it gives me a nice, peaceful time where I can just go and over-think things and not be bothered. You know, things like life, relationships, family, death… Death, that's not an uncommon thing for me to think about. I'm not depressed or anything, it's just with all my hospital time that I can't help but wonder. I should talk with Kenny about the subject sometime. But there are times like this when I hate it, particularly with my best friend sitting _right fucking next to me_ and him being half-asleep, just because it's the morning.

I glance over at the window to my right. The sky is still pretty dark, which is good, since the sun really only starts to rise about half an hour before school starts, and that would mean Stan would have to get the hell out of here right now. I'm thankful he doesn't, despite the quietness. The window's bottom right corner – the one closest to me – is sparkling a bit. It actually looks really pretty. Did it snow last night? …Oh, hell, why am I finding joy in the simple things of life?

I continue to stare at the window's corner, moving my head back and forth occasionally in order to make it glitter and shine to my eyes. Hey, at least it's something.

"…Kyle?" I hear a softly spoken voice come from one of the chairs lined up against the wall. Oh, right, Stan's here. I guess I got kinda distracted.

"Yeah?"

He gives a light cough. "It's, uh, 6:30 now." Holy crap, it's been an hour already? "I should probably be heading back…"

I notice that his voice trails off uncertainly, but decide not to question it. "Yeah… yeah, okay. Bye then," I say. God, I feel so unfocused.

Stan stands up and gives another light cough. "Err… you sure you don't know how that happened to your arm? I mean, you can tell me anything, you know?"

I raise my eyebrow in confusion. "…Huh? Stan, what are you talking about? I don't know what happened; I thought we already established that fact."

"I know, I know," he replies, "It's just… you didn't do that to yourself, right?"

This snaps me right out of it. "Wait, wait, WHAT?" So, hold on a second… my best friend thinks that I might have… oh, god…

Stan seems really uncomfortable now, and he damn well should be. Why would he think that I'd harm myself? Then again, it's not like I can really recall anything from before waking up in here, so he may be right… oh, fuck, now I don't even know. That can't be good.

"I just… err, I'm just thinking it could be a possibility. You know? I mean, uh… but you wouldn't do something like that, right?"

Great, now I feel bad for making him fidget. "Oh, um, uh, no, no, I wouldn't… you're the one who's gone goth before, remember? If there would be anyone to worry about, it'd be you."

Oh, shit, I probably shouldn't have said that. He and Wendy may have gotten back together two years ago, but still, back when they were originally together, it was puppy love, and that's just what keeps the innocence of it – destroying it breaks a part of your childish innocence, I think. There's another awkward silence, but I think he knows that I would never hurt myself like that. As long as he knows that then I'm good.

The only problem here is that _I_ don't even know that. I can't recall much, if anything. Maybe that flashback thingy from before was just some kind of front or excuse my mind made up?

I look up when I hear another light cough. Propping myself up, I ask him, "Hey, Stan, are you okay?"

He waves it off. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Pause. "Well, I should probably be going now, right? Eheh," he gives a nervous, half-hearted laugh, but turns serious on me rather quickly. "Kyle, just… just don't die on me, okay?"

Now it's my turn to give a pathetic laugh. "I'll try not to," I grin weakly. Wow. I think this situation just turned a lot more serious than I originally thought it would be.

My best friend returns my weak smile and turns to open the door. That's when I hear footsteps approaching my room, and I think Stan hears them, too, judging by the way he just stood upright suddenly. The footsteps stop and the two of us stay stock-still, breathing lightly, eyes glued to the door. I can hear voices muffled behind from behind it. One of them is unmistakably my mother's – how can you miss that one? – and the other is Dr. Doctor's, I think. They're probably going to come in. And Stan is still here. Crap. He's not supposed to be in here. He's not _allowed_ to be in here.

"Stan—Stan, you've gotta get out of here!" I hiss. He turns back to look at me. He looks calm.

"No, it's okay, it's fine. I can get in trouble, it's not big deal."

"But I don't _want_ you to get in trouble!" I shoot back. "What if you're not allowed to come back to visit me?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. I guess that's a sign that I'm being a total pussy right now. "Dude, it's okay, really. You're not going to be in here long. You don't have a disease and you're already stitched up."

"How do you know?" I argue, knowing that this argument is costing us time. "Maybe I am diseased! And what about the next time I end up in here, huh?"

"Well stop getting sick, then!"

"I can't control that!" I cry out. "Please, Stan, just… go out the window or something! I don't want you to get in trouble on my behalf, I really don't."

"Kyle, I already told you – _it doesn't matter_," he replies, sounding exasperated.

"It does to me!" Yup, I'm a goody two shoes alright. I just don't like seeing myself, or my friends, get into trouble. I've usually been reluctant to get into the stuff that I know could turn nasty. "Just—_please_, Stan?"

There's still talking going on on the other side of the door, I note.

Stan sighs. "Alright, fine, Kyle," he answers, and moves across the room. That's when I notice that the doorknob is jiggling around now… oh, fuck, that means they're coming in!

"Stan, Stan!" I hiss, and he glances over at me, a '_Now_ what?' expression on his face. I point over at the doorknob, thus losing my prop and falling back down onto the bed. "No time. _Hide!_"

He looks around quickly before diving under the bed, just as the door starts to open. My parents are still talking with the doctor, and I don't see Ike anywhere, but I'm not really paying attention to what they're saying. I'm too busy being thankful that a small stature means you're able to fit under a hospital bed, and that means Stan won't be found.

"Kyle!" my mother cries, and I groan. I'm not in the mood to deal with her right now. I'm in a hospital, I don't know what's wrong this time, I hate hospitals and I hate doctors, and I have a feeling that I probably was hating my parents before I ended up in here. I had a weird and confusing dream, I don't know if I really am depressed and emo, I'm feeling kind of woozy and dizzy again, and my best friend is hiding under my bed and is stuck there because I'm such a wimp. What a beautiful situation.


	2. And It's Barely Started

_I'm so thankful for the positive responses – thanks a TON, guys!_

_Updates may be a tad bit slower because I'm trying to find a balance in my writing and drawing now, so I'm gonna focus more on the latter for a bit. (Also, I finally got my South Park seasons 1-5 DVD's! I'll be getting season 6 and BLU soon, but I decided that I'd give you guys something to read before I go and have fun with them.) _

_Also, well… this chapter would have been up much sooner, but, sadly I had Hebrew homework on Wednesday, I got re-addicted to Marble Drop on Thursday when my dad managed to install it into my computer today, and last night I got really, really hyper with my best friend (which resulted in two inside jokes slipping into this chapter!), and finally got the rest of The Rasmus' songs. Okay, people. Best. Band. Ever. Their older songs, which were the ones I got, were the ones that provided me with much inspirations. DOWNLOAD THEIR STUFF PLZ. Both new and old, it all kicks ass! _

* * *

It's really funny, you know? You almost die a couple of times and nobody cares anymore, but then you almost die in a different way, and suddenly everybody's flocking around you and not letting up. 

Well, judging by reactions so far, I can just tell that's what's going to end up happening. Hell, even by Stan's reaction alone, I know everyone else is going to be like that. I… I just really, really don't want that. I don't want all this attention and special treatment given to me, and, much as it pains me to say this, I just really wanna go to school. Just put this whole thing behind me. Never speak of it again and shove it back within the depths of my mind for it to never resurface ever again. I know that's not going to happen but I can hope.

It's just… well, why does shit like this always have to happen to _me_? What the hell did I do? I know if Cartman was here and reading my thoughts he'd say it was because I was Jewish. God I hate that asshole so much. Why _do_ I hang out with him; why do I consider him a friend?

It's about then that I remember that I'm still in the hospital bed, my arm is still a bloody mess that could really use some cleaning up, these stitches are starting to piss me off, my family and the doctor are still standing in here and my best friend is hiding under my bed. I need to get them out somehow so Stan can get out and not end up late for school. Maybe if I pretend to go to sleep…

"Kyle, open your eyes. You need to hear this and we need to hear some things from you."

Fuck. Why can't my mom be more like Cartman's and just let me do what I want?

I barely open one eye up and fix it on her. "What," I croak out, not even phrasing it as a question – I just want them to get the hell out of here. Maybe some more sleep would do me good, actually, I still feel a bit dizzy.

She's glaring at me. Looks like she's pissed. Good, maybe that will make her go away. Dad and Ike are just sort of hiding away in the background, and I don't blame them. If it was anybody else in my situation I'd be with them, but really, I'm too tired to care.

The doctor coughs and my family looks expectantly at him. I exaggerate a yawn. Maybe if I act like a total jackass they'll go away. I'm ignored though, and he steps forward, towards me. "Kyle," he begins, and I'm ready to tune him out. I don't care… but his words still reach my ears, goddamnit. I've never been one for tuning things out. "Well, the good news this time is that you don't have a disease," he continues. I think he's trying to be funny. He's not funny. Go away. "However, you've got quite a large wound on your left arm running from about mid-way between your shoulder and elbow to your wrist—"

"No shit," I say, cutting him off. Both Mom and doctor glare at me. I shrug.

"_Ahem_," he resumes where he left off, trying to keep his professionalism about him, "This is important stuff, and you should know what's going on. Now, we managed to stitch it up, but obviously, you lost quite a lot of blood—"

"Oh, really? Then maybe you should let me rest so I can regenerate some energy."

I've got two angry faces staring back at me. Ahah, I think I just showed the doctor up. I'm probably right, too, I mean, it'd make sense, wouldn't it? That would explain why I've been feeling so woozy, dizzy, tired, whatever other adjectives you can come up for it lately. Dad and Ike are still hiding in the background. Mom stalks over to one of the chairs, sits down in it, and folds her arms. Her eyes are narrowed and brows furrowed. I know she can be a real bitch at time, and I don't really try to defend it as much anymore, now with teenaged parent angst forcing me to join the side of my peers. Still, though…

"I'll do that in a bit, but it's just a good idea to brief you in, just in case…" Oh, right, the doctor's still here. "Now, there isn't really much else to inform you of, because, well, we don't know a lot of what happened," he says, "so we'll need you to tell us everything you know."

"Dude, I don't remember anything. Please let me sleep."

"Are you sure?" Dr. Doctor persists. He thinks for a few moments, but then looks back up, meeting my gaze. "You were found outside, in some hills behind your house, lying face down in the snow in a pool of your own blood, your left arm completely split open, in below freezing temperatures."

Below freezing? That's odd. "I didn't find it that cold," I announce.

His eyes glisten. What? Did I say—

"I thought you said you didn't remember anything," he smirks.

… Damnit.

"So we'll try this one more time," he resumes, "Do you remember anything from last night." It's more of a statement than a question, now.

"No," I reply, because I really don't.

He takes a step back and crosses his arms, saying, "I see. Self-harm, perhaps, then?" Wow, this guy takes no beating around the bush—wait, WHAT? Why do people think I would do this? I mean, true, I don't even really know myself, but, well… If people are going to insist that that's how it happened, I'm going to insist it didn't.

"What? NO!" I cry out, quite loudly, taking on the immediate defensive. He nods and "hmms" a bit in response.

"You know, denial is—"

"Oh, stop it! Shut the FUCK up—" whoops, that was probably a bad move—"about all of this crap you're spewing out! I didn't fucking—" okay, now it just doesn't matter anymore—"hurt myself! I don't fucking know what the fuck happened! I'm fucking tired, I'm fucking dizzy, I'm fucking PISSED now, but most of all, I fucking HATE YOU ALL!" I scream. I realize then that I had managed to sit all the way up during this outburst, and I fall back, even more exhausted than before. My vision goes blurry. I'm not crying; I'm just tired as hell. Or maybe I am crying. I don't even know anymore.

"Because of lack of information and your obvious want to not cooperate," Dr. Doctor says, still keeping that professional air around him – I guess things like this must happen a lot, "We will clean up your arm when you're asleep and you'll be free to go home tomorrow morning." And with that, I hear the door opening and closing… but my family is still here.

Oh. Shit.

Mom gets up from her chair and marches over to my hospital bed. Stan is still under there, I remember. This isn't good. There's no doubt where I get my violent outbursts of anger from – I just hope she doesn't get physical which I often do.

"Kyle, we need to discuss these matters, _now_," she growls, almost… snarls? Dad and Ike are still in the background. This is where I make a point of turning over onto my right side and snuggling under the blankets.

"Mom, let me sleep."

"Not after that kind of behaviour!" she exclaims, and stomps over so that she's in my line of sight. "We can talk about what you said to these people who are trying to _help you_—"

"Who obviously don't know the best for me since they won't let me rest," I counter.

She huffs. "Kyle, don't interrupt me. You got plenty of sleep before."

"Mom, I was _unconscious_."

"What did I say about interrupting?" She's acting too calm. I think I'd prefer it if she was a raging, screaming mess. I'm more used to that. "No, what really matters to me now is your behaviour from last night."

This… this is just getting frustrating. "I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM LAST NIGHT," I yell at her, "Why do people keep talking to me about it? How many times have I said I can't tell them anything?"

"Then I'll refresh your memory as best I can. After spending so much time in your room, you eventually came out, late at night, slammed your door, stomped the whole way down the stairs while swearing under your breath the whole time, and when Ike approached you you muttered something to him that made him back off right away. When I came to you to try to reason with you, you had a fit, walked outside, slammed the door on your way out, and that was the last I had seen of you. I went up to your room and…"

Oh… oh my god. For once I'm able to tune my mother out, and I wish I couldn't. I just remembered everything that happened last night. Every little detail. I never tried to kill myself; it was… oh, christ… I don't want to remember this. I want to keep this in the back of my mind. I want to completely forget this. The warning bit… and… oh, god if I talk… if I even _think_ about it… I could… I have to hold this memory back.

I'm not spilling anything.

I bring myself back to the real world, trying to forget those images, and see my mom's facing staring expectantly at me. Her eyes are narrowed and her brows are furrowed, her fists are clenched and her face is red. Wait, what? When did this happen? "Uh… what?" I ask, innocently.

"WHAT?" she roars in my face. Oh yeah, she's pissed alright. "WHAT I asked you was why you found it necessary to call me a 'fucking bitchcunt!'"

"Because you ARE ONE!" I yell back at her. "God why can't you people just leave me the fuck ALONE?"

"WhatwhatWHAT?" she yells back at me, in shock. "Kyle, I don't know what you think you're doing but this kind of stuff is absolutely UNACCEPTABLE! You, sir, are GROUNDED until… until… Oh, I don't even know! Until you're in COLLEGE!"

"Go ahead and ground me, bitch!" I shout back to her. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Dad has left the room, and Ike is still there, sitting in a chair, eyes moving from me to my mom when either of us speak, a little smile on his face. Little bastard! He's only nine and he's already amused by things like this. Then again, I guess I was no better when I was nine, but, still… I casually flip him off, and he returns it, not missing a beat. "See if I CARE!" I start up again, "I had plenty good reason to be pissed and you would be too if you had been in my situation!"

She spins around from leaving and glares at me. "Maybe, but I wouldn't have done anything like what YOU did! You have to learn to control your anger and until then you're grounded!"

I… _I_ have to learn to control my anger? The hell? She isn't one to talk at all! The only person in the world who can dig deep enough under my skin to get me that pissed is Cartman; for her, it's almost anything! She's opening the door, and this is where I feel I should tell her that. "Hey, Mom, don't act so high and mighty! You're no better – it's no wonder where I inherited this trait from!"

Well, that stopped her in her tracks, well enough, because she's turned back around and shut the door again. "What!" she snaps. "Don't insult your own mother, Kyle!"

"I've done it before and I'll do it again and again and again! You know, everybody – _everybody _– in this town thinks you're the biggest bitch in the world, and now, I'm agreeing with them! Stop thinking you have so much power and stop being so full of yourself!"

She isn't saying anything now, but she looks even more pissed. Finally, she opens the door, steps out, and slams it real hard. I could even swear that the room is shaking for a little after. On the other side of the door, I hear a loud, frustrated, strangled scream, and then it's quiet. Now it's only me, Ike, and Stan, who is still under my bed, in this room. Ike looks up at me, and I say to him, "Ike, go away." He does and follows my mother out.

How long has it been? Not very, apparently… those two arguments may have only lasted about half an hour, tops, meaning Stan still has time. That's good.

Speaking of Stan, he finally slides himself out from under that bed and stands upright. After a bit of silence, he finally says, "…Whoa, dude."

I blush a bit. "Err… yeah… well, you'd better hurry now, I guess." Only now do I realize that I've been sitting up this whole time. I feel even more exhausted from all of those arguments now, though, so I fall back.

He blinks. "Uh… yeah… see ya," he says, opens up the window, and jumps out, landing on the ground below and closing it back up. It's a good thing I'm on the first floor. The sun has started to rise already, so he's got to hurry, but I'm sure he'll make it easily enough. Stan's pretty fast.

People do and say really stupid things when they're tired, and I guess that was my case here. But I also really don't mind getting myself in trouble if it digs my best friend out of it… oh, god, I don't even know right now. I just want to sleep. Finally I have a moment to myself—

No, wait. That damn heart rate machine is still going. Would it shut up already? Now it's making me even MORE pissed. I tear off any wires or whatever shit is on me – it's not like I know about hospital stuff, and it's not like I should even be need these any more anyway – and it stops, but I still hate that thing. I notice there's a glass of water next to me, and, in a fit of rage at that damned machine, throw it at it. The glass shatters and is spread out all over the floor, the machine is soaked and sparking, not to mention it's pretty smashed up, too. I finally roll over and get some sleep, content that I have some peace and quiet, and pleased with myself, although I don't really know why.

* * *

It's sometime around 3:30 p.m., I know that much. I woke up about an hour ago to find myself much calmer and more relaxed and refreshed. I guess a sleep was just what I needed. That machine I broke is gone from the room now, along with all of the glass on the floor. My arm is cleaned up and completely sealed up now, which is good, I guess. I noticed a small TV in here so I turned it on and started channel flipping. Found some old Terrance and Phillip reruns, so I've been watching those, for old times' sake. Makes me feel kind of nostalgic. 

"Well Terrance, I hope you've learned something today," Phillip says on the screen at the end of an episode.

"I sure have, Phillip. I've learned that you're a great big fagoot!" Terrance replies. Ah, Canadian accents. At least Ike doesn't have one because he's grown up here.

I turn my attention back to the TV when I hear Terrance fart, the two of them laugh, and then the episode end. That's when I flip the TV off. I couldn't help but smile a bit at that end, I mean, I'm still a kid, and I'm still amused by that. Not as much as in the past, though. Stan will probably be back here soon, and with Kenny, and maybe even Cartman, I'll bet. The hospital's bound to let them in. I'm just glad I haven't seen any of their staff since this morning, and I hope something will come along so I won't have to, either. Definitely not in the mood.

I don't want to see Cartman, though. Damnit, I hate him so much.

I flop back down onto the pillows. Nobody has bugged me this morning, and I'm really thankful for that, because I feel a lot better (albeit a bit of regret for my actions this morning, but, hey, I was tired, right?).

That's when I hear the door open and see Stan's head peek through. "Kyle?" he calls, and I sit back up and wave.

He opens the door wider and I can see that Cartman and Kenny are there, too. The three of them enter, and Kenny is the first to notice my left arm and make a comment on it.

"Whoa! Kyle, that injury's fucking _huge_!"

"Thanks for the newsflash, Kenny," I mutter.

"Can you move it now?" Stan questions. I nod in response and bend it and swing it around a bit, which pretty much shows that I'll be fine.

It's then that I notice that Cartman has yet to say anything; he's too busy staring at my arm. Finally, he speaks up, "Whoa, Kyle… so… I helped that happen?"

I glare at him and speak through gritted teeth, "Yes."

Stan and Kenny's eyes instantly shoot to the two of us. "What do you mean?" Stan asks, glaring at Cartman. Cartman gives him a smug smile back, while Kenny shakes his head at how typical our behaviour is.

Rather than answering the question, Cartman asks me, "What, I upset you enough to make you try to kill yourself?" Fat boy looks mighty proud of himself.

"No and for the last damn time I DID NOT TRY TO KILL MYSELF!" I scream at him. Double-chins continues to smirk though, probably because I'm so pissed but can't hurt him this time.

Suddenly, I feel a stinging pain on my right cheek, and turn to see that Kenny has just slapped me. God damn that kid can really slap. He locks eyes with me and speaks slowly and clearly, "Kyle, what did Cartman have to do with this?" I bet he's asking me because he knows he won't get anything out of Cartman. Those two have been best friends, kinda like Stan and I but not on the same level, for quite a while now, although Kenny is definitely the more sensible of the two, like Stan's much more sensible than I am. It's probably because Cartman and I are fighting all the time.

I shrug. "It's nothing much, really. Fatass called me for last-minute math homework help," I start, still amazed that Cartman actually does care about his grades. He probably cares more about math, though, because in the end, that subject will give him the most help with money. Typical Dickface behaviour, really. "After he gets the concept we get into another argument." Stan and Kenny groan, Stan pinching the bridge of his nose and Kenny slapping his forehead in agitation. Once again, no surprise.

"And Kyle, because he's so gay for me, was so upset that after our discussion he had to run off and cut himself," Cartman finishes for me. I growl and jump up out of the bed, my anger not allowing me to remain still in that bed.

"I swear to god Cartman, I'll kill you!" I shout, and his smirk vanishes. Stan runs over to restrain me, while I continue with my outburst. "You know that's a load of crap! I went outside to cool off! Damnit, Stan, let go of me!"

Kenny stands by the side, highly amused now at how Stan's struggling to hold me back. When he notices my anger directed at him for a brief second, he raises his hands up in defense. I guess there's really no debate as to who the toughest one in our group is, since Kenny backs down from no one.

"Hey, hey, wait," he says, trying to calm me down in case Stan loses his hold on me, "That doesn't explain how you got hurt."

"Yeah," Cartman agrees, "It doesn't. So, Kyle, how did you get hurt?"

I cease my movements and stand still. I'm… I'm just going to remain silent on this one. No way are they dragging this out of me. When Cartman notices that I'm not going to say anything, his smug smile gets even bigger. "So, Jewboy won't tell us, huh? I think my point's been proved. Too bad he didn't die."

"Cartman!" Stan shouts at him, letting me go. I, meanwhile, am pissed, knowing I can't say a word to prove him wrong, and I can't do anything more than continue to stand there stupidly.

Cartman walks up to me and prods a fat finger into my chest. "You know why you tried to kill yourself?" he asks. Before I can tell him that I didn't, he continues, "Because you're just a little faggy Jewish kid who knows you'll never amount to anything." He turns around and walks out the door, waving his hand as he leaves. "See ya, Kyle!"

"Fuck you!" I shout after him, but he keeps on walking and waving. I bet he's still smiling, too. Kenny gives me a look that says "Sorry" and dashes out after his best friend, to talk some sense into him I hope.

I sit back down on the bed and hold my head in my hands. Stan joins me. "Man, I really hate him sometimes," he says, and I nod in agreement.

"I know. I really hate him, too."


	3. Opposites Argue

_Ah, I'm so sorry for the long wait! I have a good excuse, really. …And a bad excuse. And it's probably the bad excuse that contributed to most of the delay. Eehee, whoops. Anyway, good excuse… I had to go visit some family relatives. Bad excuse, upon getting back I got totally addicted to Drawn Together. No, no, South Park is still my number one love and I'll still continue writing this, don't worry._

_Anyway, uh, I have a few things I want to say here. The first one being that, since I never did state what kind of pairings are in this, if you come across one you don't like, but you still liked reading this, for the love of god, **keep reading**. Who knows, that pairing you love may just turn up. You also start to get seeing that I love background characters! Like, a lot! So more of them will start popping up, too. And yay, angst! _

_Also, uh, yeah, I feel this one is a bit slower, because it only has like… two characters in it, and all, but I'm actually getting to a point where more stuff happens. I do need to learn to plan out things a bit better though, eheh. I also kinda wanted to continue on this chapter a bit more but I figured I could cut it off here. You people have been waiting long enough._

_And, uh, I'll have a good explanation for all of the stuff that occurs in this fic eventually, so, yeah. At least I think it'll work. But yeah, I know this took me a while to update, and since I'm going back to school soon, updates probably **will**__be slower, so you've been warned. I won't quit without explanation, though._

_Oh, and one last thing: people I LOVE it when you review! Seriously, I'm totally all insecure and stuff when I post anything, and reviews help calm me down. I'm not asking you to review, I hate it when people do that, really, I'm just telling you that when you review you boost my self esteem a bit and that's always appreciated._

* * *

Social statuses are really funny, if you think about it. In just about every populated city high school you've got the group of jocks, and the preps, and they're all dating, and then you've got the loser kids who the jocks like to pick on, and the loser kids either take it, or try to stand up for themselves. The jocks and the preps are pretty set, usually it's they're all jackasses with maybe a nice one here and there. The loser kids are more varied, however. You've got the nerds, who focus on their studies and may or may not try to defend themselves. Then you've got the geeks, who typically don't defend themselves, but sit around and enjoy each other's company and someday go on to be the greats of the world. You've also got the kind of 'cool loser' who is typically left alone, I guess, and you've got the ones who wallow in self-pity and whine and moan about every single little thing like the little pussies they are.

Here, in South Park, we have some of those stereotypes, but really, since we're just a small town (with a high school! We're ever-so-special), you rarely see those kinds of dramas. I mean, yeah, you've usually got the upperclassmen being the big assholes on campus, but that's to be expected wherever you go. But the fact that we all know each other and have grown up together and live in such a small place has really helped us.

Although, of course, not everybody's going to like each other. For example, Token and I have some awkward moments together and the two of us have even broken out in full-fledged fighting before, although, to be honest, I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because of some sort of pressure pressed on us by the other kids, I don't know. I don't think Token does either. Maybe it's because we're the only real minorities: he's the black kid, I'm the Jewish kid. We've probably been egged on in the past before, and since the two of us do go nuts when we're pissed, I guess it's only natural. I don't hate the guy, though, but it's just that with everybody else sitting around in their white Roman Catholic way, and we're the only different ones… it's like, they just want to see us brawl it out, or something. It's definitely cleverly disguised peer pressure.

Stan and Craig also have a bit of a rivalry going on. They're the most likely will-be jocks of our freshman class, but chances are Craig will end up being top dog because he's bigger than Stan, and Stan does have asthma. But it seems like the two of them have always been at it, ever since they've known each other. You know, like it's some kind of chemistry thing; they totally clash while Stan and I just mix.

Wow, that just sounded really gay there. But really, it's not something uncommon. I mean, like, it doesn't matter who you are or anything at all like that. If you're close to another person, you're automatically "together." The only real problem with this thing, though, is that with everybody we know, it's only Stan and I. There's been tons of rumours flying around that we're hot for each other, although most people know that isn't true. I think. I hope. But nobody else seems to be as close as the two of us are… not even Stan and Wendy. (Then again, they did keep on breaking each other's hearts when we were younger, so that would make sense. It surprised everyone when they returned after winter break of the seventh grade holding hands, and it's still surprising that two years later they're still together.)

Oh, god, I always over-analyze things when I'm bored and totally awake. I think it's… like, midnight, now? and I haven't been able to fall back asleep. I haven't been approached by any more hospital staff, though, but I'm scared for the morning when they'll undoubtedly have to talk to me.

Nothing else has really happened, but I can't get Cartman's words out of my head. "Just a little faggy Jewish kid who will never amount to anything," he said. And you know, I can't help but thing he's right. Two out of three isn't so bad, is it? I probably _won't_ amount to anything. I know, I know. I'm the smartest kid in the freshman class and I get close to perfect grades and blah blah blah blah blah, but academics isn't everything. Sure, in today's world, it makes up a good part of everything, but it isn't everything. Health is something else that's pretty important, but you don't exactly see me winning in that category, do you? And street smarts, I'm definitely lacking in those, too, sadly enough and pathetic as it is.

Before I got hurt, the thought of self-harm had never crossed my mind. I mean, sure, the thought of dying had, but everyone thinks things like that: Will my death effect anyone? Who will come to my funeral? But I never really thought about it seriously. And after I managed to confirm that I wasn't the one who did this to myself, I decided to let those kinds of thoughts slip, but I can't.

"Try to kill yourself," "Run off and cut yourself," "Too bad he didn't die." More of Cartman's words. Maybe it _is_ too bad I didn't die. Maybe I should have. Recalling what happened to me – and I don't want to go into detail about it, just in case something slips audibly… well, maybe it would be better if I did die. For me, so I wouldn't have to go through with this; so my friends and family could be spared.

But there's always friends insisting that they really, really care about you, and would rather they die than have that fate befall you, so I could never get anywhere with that kind of reasoning with Stan and Kenny… maybe even with Cartman, although that's doubtful. We were much better friends when we were younger than we are now.

I've never given serious thought to anything like this before. But then again, nothing like this has ever happened before. I just think I should go through with it, but the question is, now or back at home? The sooner I die the better, probably, so I can't back out of it, but I'm at a hospital so they'd have a better chance of saving me. The longer I live, though, the more of a burden I am, and the more resources I waste, and such, but there's less of a chance of saving me… _especially_ if I manage to go off to some secluded area. That's where I was when I initially got hurt. Maybe I was _meant_ to die and nobody was _supposed_ to find me.

All I'd have to do is undo these stitches, maybe inflict myself with another wound somewhere else, and just wait to bleed to death.

I wonder how Stan would react. Maybe, if I flip our situations, I can figure it out. What if Stan was the one who was going to kill himself, then what would I do? I would… I guess I'd probably follow suite, current depressed state of mind and empty feelings excluded. I… I can't do that to him.

But Cartman said I'd never amount to anything. I don't get it, why am I letting his words affect me so much? I mean, sure I'll amount to something eventually if I just keep on working hard. He's the one who would probably amount to nothing – although this I say out of spite, I know, because he's a very persuasive guy with a power over words and other people's feelings. It's amazing. But I'm just trying to live life, or, well, at least I thought I was. I… I have no clue anymore. I'm just so confused and blank.

I turn over on my side and snuggle into the bed. The mattress isn't all that soft, though, it's kind of stiff and uncomfortable. I don't like it. I can't wait to get out of here; alive or dead, it doesn't make much difference to me now. I'm staring at nothing in particular, my vision is blurry and I feel cold.

I'm crying. I'm… I'm crying? Why the fuck would I be doing that? Am I going to go through with this or what? I mean, do I really have anything to look forward to after I get out of here? More school, more work, definitely tons of unwanted questions, more Cartman, but more Stan and Kenny, too. I just can't help but think right now, _Is it really all worth it?_

_Is it worth it?_

_Is it worth it?_

_Is it worth anything?_

Maybe it is, but I just won't find out the answer. Maybe I never will. But that's what life is like, isn't it? It probably really isn't worth anything at all, and all we're supposed to do is have a good time while we're here and try to help others have a good time, too. That makes sense. Although sometimes, it's just way too hard to have a good time. I probably shouldn't be one to complain, though, I mean, there are others out there much worse off than I am…

Whoever says that an easy life is never fun is fucking stupid, though.

My vision is still blurred by my tears. I feel depressed, and kind of empty, but, hey… as long as I can keep my head, I think that I'll be fine. Just as long as nothing happens to tip me the wrong way, but the way I'm thinking right now, it could be possible. I don't know if I'll know; I don't know if I _want_ to know. But if the rest of the night and the morning soon to come remain eventless, then, yeah, these crazy thoughts will probably leave me alone and I'll have nothing to worry about.

Out of nowhere, a loud screeching sound reaches my ears, and jerks me out of my thoughts. I instantly shoot up into a sitting position, eyes wide and alert and looking around. I hear the main doors of the hospital open and several people rushing through it, plus the squeaky wheels of a stretcher being rolled down the main hallway quickly. A doctor is shouting out commands, but I can't make out what exactly he's saying. The noise soon fades away.

I remain sitting upright, still alert and now taking deep breaths from the shock all of that sudden noise gave me. It's the early hours of the morning, and I would never have expected all that. I can only assume that somebody had to go to the E.R. right away; I can't think of any other reason as to why so much noise would be made so early when most people are asleep.

Satisfied with my own explanation, and considerably calmed down from my shock, I flop back down, staring up at the ceiling with my arms spread out enough that my hands fall over both sides of the bed. I wonder if whoever they rushed in here is going to die. It's funny how easily a life can be lost, and how insignificant we are. I should note never to become a doctor… I don't think I could deal with being powerless to save anybody.

…God, hospitals are boring. I'm not going to get any sleep tonight. Time is passing by so slowly, too – it feels like I should be going home now, but in reality it's probably only been an hour or two.

_I **hate** hospitals._

I'm still staring at the ceiling, and haven't changed my position a bit, when I heard the door start to open slowly. A nurse peeks her head in and glances around quickly. She opens the door wider and calls to someone on the other side of it that I can't see, "In here, there's an extra space in here!"

The door is opened completely and another nurse wheels in a still body lying in a stretcher. I can just see that the chest is rising slowly up and down, though. Both nurses leave without giving me so much as a glance, and for that I'm incredibly thankful.

From the stretcher I hear some angry, suppressed, strangled sobs. I don't know about you, but it's hard for me to ignore someone crying when there are only two of us in an otherwise completely silent room, I can't exactly ignore it. Even if I don't really care who it is, I still can't ignore it. I either tell them to shut up and suck it up because everybody has their own problems, or ask if they're okay or what's wrong (preferably the latter, I mean, the former is just a stupid thing to ask to a crying person).

I sit up and turned to face the person, my mouth open on the start of my question, but when I see who it is I just can't force the words out of me.

It's a fourteen-year-old girl – my age – and she looks a total mess. Her eyes are forcefully squeezed shut and I can see the tears leaking out of them. She has a great deal of eyeliner on her, plus mascara, and it's running. Her lips – pitch black from lipstick, I can only assume – are moving softly, no doubt in a string of curses, because even if she may be whispering them and crying at the same time, I can still hear, "Fuck, sob, fuck fuck, sob, fuuuck, shit, sob sob, no fucking hell whyyy, sob sob sob, motherfuckeerrr," and so on, pretty clearly.

I can't help but feel I've seen her from somewhere before. Her skin is incredibly pale, almost some kind of ghostly white. She has black hair, stick straight and long, going down to about her waist. It actually looks really smooth and silky… if not dull. Her features look soft and delicate and pure. She's got a small nose, but nothing too small, and really, really pretty, thick eyelashes. I can see that she's also wearing black eyeshadow, too. All the dark really contrasts with her light skin, and it looks beautiful, too.

She's small and thin. She's wearing a light blue hospital gown, just like I am, and as my eyes pass over her body – one that's shaking with every sob – I can see what got her in here.

She's a cutter.

And now I know where I've seen her before.

Being a goth kid isn't that big of a deal, but being a goth teenager steps it up to a whole new level. Our wonderful set of four's extremity increased with their age. The youngest one is still back in elementary school; I think he's in my brother's class. The oldest one is currently in his sophomore year, thusly ditching the chick – Henrietta, who is sharing my room with me right now – and the one with the red dye in his hair, because he was forced into high school a year before we got in due to age. I don't know anything about where the youngest and the oldest are now.

But the two my age I know, having them remain in my classes throughout school. They both smoke, and they both cut. I don't know anything about their home lives, but I do know that at school they're the ones who sit in the back corner and ignore everybody. They're the ones who write their gothic poetry and draw dark pictures of consumed souls and condemned rising up and oh, who knows what the fuck they do, something of that nature. I know that Henrietta went from being Cartman-sized to something that you could compare easily to a twig; rumour is she's anorexic, and I'd vouch for that.

I know that the two of them have a morbid fascination with the supernatural, the guy moreso. I know that time and location isn't a matter to them, and they'll bleed whenever and wherever they want to, Henrietta moreso. And I know that they are completely social outcasts and they're the ones that put themselves there.

I don't know anything else about them, but I do have the opinion that they are overreacting to their life situations. They live in a first world country and all they can think about is death, and goddamn, if I could, I'd send them to some disgusting infested third-world country somewhere in Africa and let them whine about their lives there so the local people can look at them with repulsion and impale them to get them to shut the hell up and, as a two for one special, get a free meal.

I can't believe I was just contemplating killing myself before she came in. But if I were to go through with it, it wouldn't be for self-gain only, at the least…

I remember the warning very, very clearly…

But… oh my god, I did not just—oh, wait… I was gonna talk to her. She's still cursing and crying and her eyes are still closed, so she hasn't seen me gawking like a moron at her. That's good.

"Hey, uh—" she looks up at me, black makeup trailing down her face and eyes still watery, "Are—err, what's wrong?"

She sniffs and claws at her wrist. "They fucking saved me," she spits. "I was about to finally end it all, and die in a pool of my own suffering and blood, and somebody called 9-1-1 and they saved me." She cocks her head to look at me, her hand gripping at her hurt wrist. "Do I know you from anywhere?"

"Uhh… yeah, school," I answer.

"Why are you in here?"

"Because I almost died, dumbass. Why are _you_ in here?" I don't care if she just tried to kill herself, that question was still stupid and the sarcasm was just.

She takes no notice of that, though, and simply replies, "Cool." This leaves me to gawk at her as she looks around the room.

"C-cool!" I stutter in disbelief, gaining her attention again immediately. Oh god, she has blue-grey eyes. They're dull, too. They probably wouldn't be if she wasn't so angsty. "How the hell is that cool? You know, not all of us are whiny little pussies who can't shape up to the real world!"

She takes one of her strands of hair and twirls it around her finger. "Well," she starts off, "how do you know that's true? How do you know what goes on in my life?"

"You live in a fucking first world country!" I spit back at her, "All of your essential needs are met! And you're just wasting—"

"Yeah, yeah," she says, waving her hand and cutting me off, "All of my physical needs are met, but humans need more than that to live. They need communication, social interaction."

"So what do you think this is?" I huff, crossing my arms.

Henrietta stares at me with a blank expression on her face. "_Real_ social interaction. Not abusive. Just a typical, normal, don't-threaten-to-kill-each-other or abuse-each-other kind of family. Nobody cares about me, so I should be allowed to die in peace."

"That's bullshit. If nobody cared about you, you would be dead by now and not in a hospital. Your parents called 9-1-1 and got you here, and the doctors took care into saving your life."

"The doctors saved my life because it's their job, so they can get their fancy pay checks. When I get out I'll probably get beaten for causing more money to be spent on both this bill and most likely therapy." She sighs. "It's just a load of bullcrap anyway."

I just can't believe this girl! I understand that there can be some sort of genetic connection with depression and all, but this is just ridiculous. She's got to be exaggerating. "These people are trying to _help_ you," I say through gritted teeth, "_Why can't you just accept it._"

"Help?" she sneers, "No, nobody ever helps you just to help you. They're all in it for personal gain. It's just a disgusting, selfish world we live in. Get out of your fairytale land and open your eyes. You're being naïve."

"That's not always the case."

"No, you're right, I'm sorry. But not all of us have our nice perfect best friends to turn to like you do with your Stan. I bet the only reason you two seem so 'selfless' around each other is because that way you get the companionship you crave. Pathetic."

Apparently she recognizes me, but I don't like the way she said 'your Stan.' Since when is a person my fucking property? I don't care how pretty this bitch is, she's still a bitch. "Maybe you're the one living in the fairytale you want to, huh? Maybe you _want_ to be depressed. Why? Is it to show off? To say, 'Hey, I'm cool, I'm different?' You're not. You're being fucking retarded, is all. You refuse to accept help from _anybody_, and if anybody tries to help you just for the sake of being nice, you shoot them down saying they're a selfish pig? What the hell is wrong with you?"

She remains silent, although I can see her eyes narrow a bit in anger. I guess I stood her up, but, really, it shouldn't be that hard a thing to do to these kinds of people.

And she brought up Stan. I remember when Stan was like that. And _I_ couldn't even snap him out of it, me, his best friend… Sure, we may only have been nine at the time, but that's still a downer.

The gothic girl suddenly speaks up again, jerking me out of my thoughts. "Hey, how did you almost die?"

"I… I'm not telling you," I snap back instantly. I tell anybody and it'll be the death of me.

She smirks in response. "Yeah, sure. What did you almost die from?"

"Blood loss."

"From where?"

"My arm." Why am I telling her these things?

Henrietta's smirk broadens. "May I see it?" I comply and lift it up for her. I don't know why I'm doing this. Lust must blind you, or something. Fuck. I hate girls. She gives out a low whistle when it comes into her line of sight.

"Woow," is all she says. "Who did that to you?"

I remain silent. I can't think up a good answer. I know what she, among countless others after her, are going to be bound to think, but it wasn't me. And I'm not in denial or anything. _It wasn't me._

I look into her eyes and it's like I can read her mind from them. "I didn't do it!" I blurt out instantly, trying to defend myself, but to no avail. She shakes her head, her dull black hair flying about in the air as she does so. I note that it's the opposite of Wendy's, colour and length aside.

"Suuure. You know, you shouldn't live in denial—"

I am _sick_ of people thinking that I would do this to myself. I am _sick_ everybody's accusations. I am _sick _of this idiocy and simple-mindedness. And I am _sick_ of people taking the easy was out by assuming that I did this to myself and there could be no other possible reason behind it. This is going to land me in therapy I don't need. These kinds of attitudes need to stop. So I jump up and grab her by her shoulders, shaking her. "I. Am. Not. _Living. In. **Fucking. DENIAL!**_" I scream. "I DIDN'T cut myself, I DIDN'T try to kill myself—"

"But have you ever thought about it seriously?" she suddenly butts in, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," I reply instantaneously once again. Goddamnit! Why do I keep doing that?

Suddenly she's on alert and her eyes are attentive. "When? Why?" she questions, and I can't help but not answer.

"Just… just, like, an hour ago or something. So I could save my friends and stop wasting things and, and lying to myself… _not_ for personal gain like you. You just want to escape because you know you can't handle it." Although… I guess I am scared.

"You don't know that about me. And I doubt you don't want to do it for anything other than personal gain."

What is wrong with this girl? Why does she think everybody is totally selfish? I guess there just isn't any fixing in the way some people think. I lie back down on my bed and roll over, so I'm facing away from her. "You know what? Whatever. I give up with you. You're not going to stop thinking the way you think."

"Maybe I have a good reason for thinking the way I think."

"Good for you. I don't care; I'm done listening to you now."

"Alright," she replies, and I hear her walk over to the large window that Stan had used to get out of here less than 24 hours ago. I sit up and turn to look at her.

"What are you doing?"

She opens the window. "I'm getting out of here. I hate hospitals." And with that, she climbs out, and neglects to close it. A cold breeze comes in.

So she hates them too. But now that she did bring the possibility up, I can see that that one's not bad. If I just leave now, I can avoid having to speak to the staff again. It may be cold outside, but it's nothing that I've never dealt with before. So I climb out the window, too, and close it when my feet touch the concrete and I'm completely outside. It's freezing and I only have the choice of walking on snow or concrete. Concrete's harder, but also dryer and firmer, so I'll stick with that as long as I can.

I can't believe that girl's persistence. She almost just died and she's already running off: I can see her figure running off into the distance, and I can see her footprints in the snow.

There's something about her attitude that just makes me want to follow her and ask her why she thinks all of that stuff. Maybe I am being a bit stubborn in my views, but they're what makes sense to me, and what makes sense to me isn't going to make sense to everybody out there. I wanna know that makes sense to her.

Besides, she probably isn't _that _persistent. I also want to make sure she doesn't end up collapsing in the snow and dying there. Maybe that could show her that sometimes people _do_ just care.

I start to chase after her, flinching at first at how cold the snow feels on my bare feet. It's early morning, everybody else is probably asleep. And as I look ahead at her back, which is coming up faster and faster. She must still be weak, or I'm probably faster than her… most likely it's both. I throw back my head in exasperation, and I can't help but wonder how in the hell I just fell for a goth chick.

At least I'm not depressed anymore. I don't want to end up like _that_.


	4. Quote, Differences

_Ack, I'm really, **really **sorry for how long this took! Basically, I was trying to get some art done, first, and it ended up taking a while. But I'm pretty sure that now I've found a balance between my art and my writing, so things should be going much more smoothly, now, I hope. But all the time off has given me time to think up some new ideas, and I have some more specifics lined up and ready to go, so I'm excited for that._

_Since this is where the slash **officially** beings (yaay!), I'd just like to pop in with another friendly reminder that there's more than one het pairing in this, and more than one slash pairing, and no, not all of them involve Kyle, because I just love background characters that much, so be sure to keep reading, please! _

_Oh, and want some irony? I got sick partway through this chapter, went to school because I didn't want to miss anything, and then took the next day off because I felt too horrible and ended up working on this on my day off. That amused me, to say the least, eehee._

_The end to this chapter was really, **really** fun to write. Expect more things like that later on, now. Yay, I'm finally picking up the pace!_

* * *

Have you ever run in snow before? I mean, no shit, it's cold, and it's wet, and it seeps into your boots and your socks and if you're that kind of person pisses you off immensely, but when you're running barefoot, and when you probably shouldn't be running, _damn_, it feels _really_ cold.

You know when you torture yourself with the sole promise of "when this is done, it will feel _so_ fucking good"? Yeah, that's me right now. When my feet are nice and warm and dry it will feel even better than normal, but still, it brings me back to the whole "is anything worth anything" deal when I was feeling particularly angsty.

Sometimes I try to motivate myself to excel by saying things like, "It's just a lot of pain for a little while, think of how good it will feel afterwards," but that tends to flop as soon as I realize that I can't make myself do all that and I'm just not capable of it. But all around me it's only snow now, so I have no where else to run to.

It's had to have been at least half an hour now, and I've slowed my pace because I'm getting tired, the method mentioned above having failed yet again, and Henrietta is still running. She's made tons of twists and turns, and we're somewhere in a forest now, I know, but I don't think she knows where she is. I don't think she knows that I've been trailing her this whole time. But I'm pretty sure that she's in some kind of panic or hysteria, I don't know how.

Since it's still winter – December, after all – the days are really, really short, so it's still pitch black outside, and since she's so pale it's like she almost blends in with the snow, and since above it's dark out, and her hair is a thick, thick black, the kind that you could lose yourself in without a light, that blends in, too. It's been hard to keep her in my sight, but I don't want her to die, so I'm going to continue chasing after her.

I don't think I could live with myself if someone was deliberately out to murder themselves and I did nothing to stop it.

Snow is white and cold, it sparkles every time you move your line of sight, and it's one of the most beautiful things ever when falling… which it has started to do just now. My lungs are burning and it hurts to breathe, and I want nothing more than to collapse, but if I do I'll probably be buried and die from frostbite or something, so I've got myself in a fucked situation, too.

Shit, I think I lost sight of her. I continue running in the same direction that I was, though, and if it digs me deeper into the uncivilized mountainous areas, I'm screwed. I'm not one for athletics, I'm one for academics. If it leads me out of these trees, though, I'll probably have a good chance.

And lo and behold, it's just as I think this that I break through and run straight through a bunch of branches that are all tangled together, thus earning myself several small cuts all over my body but miraculously keeping my left arm intact, but the important thing is that I'm in an open space. It never looked so good before.

But if I know she's in there and if don't find her… I… I don't care if she hates life and sounds like a pathetic whiny bitch; I can't let her die in there, even if she wants to.

So I turn back and think to myself, _I've probably made the biggest mistake of my life just now._

I don't run very far until I stop for breath, bending over and placing my hands on my knees. I'm going to end up killing myself by doing this, I just know it. Both common sense and instinct are telling me to turn the hell back but I refuse to listen to them.

In fact, it downright shocks me when she runs straight by me, not noticing me at all, her hair flying out and whipping me in the face as she keeps going, and going, and going. This girl is amazing. Underweight, skinny as hell, weak, and she's still going. I caught a glance at her profile when she flashed by me, though: her eyes were shut and tears were up against her lashes, hell, I think they were freezing.

But I can't feel cold, I'm too tired to really feel – or do – anything. But I follow her with my eyes and—

Oh.

_Ouch._

At least I've got her now. I jog up to the base of the tree she just ran into, and flop down beside her sprawled out body, happy that at the least I managed to get her.

Still, running into a tree at full-speed has got to be one of the most painful things out there.

She landed on her back, and her chest is moving up and down rapidly now, gasping for air. Her eyes open slowly… and stare directly into mine.

Instant recognition comes to her, and those eyes that were wide and panicked just a moment before instantly narrow. "What are _you_ doing here?" she demands icily.

"I—" That's it. That's all I can think of to say. "I—" I try again, and think to myself, _I've got butterflies in my stomach, that's what "I—" is. Damnit. _

"You what?" she asks, and gives an out-of-breath laugh. "You're going to die if you stay out here much longer. Go home, kid. You'll be happier amongst people who think like you and enjoy their picture-perfect world. You can't shape up to the real thing."

Cartman said something like that earlier, didn't he?

_He did._

And I don't see Henrietta in front of me anymore, but rather Cartman as her features twist and turn in my exhausted and now enraged mind's eye, and I slap fatass' fat, smirking, grinning, contempt-filled face. The loud, sharp _smack_ (one that would have made Kenny proud) jerks me back into the real world and I see Henrietta, back to herself, gawking up at me, her hand gingerly touching her cheek where there's a stinging bright red mark.

_Yeah, that's what you get if you mess with me, bitch, _and I repeat this, only out loud. "Don't fucking toy with me," I add, and in the most serious tone I can come up with, too. Suddenly the pale girl in front of me looks ready to take me seriously.

Funny for one who seems to love pain so much to learn her lesson from it. Maybe it's because I don't seem like the type, or maybe it's just because somebody hurt her, _actually _hurt her, and this time, it _wasn't _her. But I don't care what the case is; she's ready to take me seriously.

It's silent for a bit, and the two of us breathe heavily, catching our breaths. I manage to repeat myself between my gasps for air, "Don't… fucking… toy… with me," and I've never been more serious in my life. I don't need more shit happening to me, Cartman is bad enough as it is, and frankly, if anybody else is going to cross over that line, I'll tear their fucking organs out.

Funny how I was just thinking I could never forgive myself if I left someone behind to die.

She stares up at me. "What?" she finally breathes out, breaking the silence.

And I actually don't know how to answer. My mind has gone blank. A second, more demanding, "what?" escapes from her lips again, and that's when I find my voice again.

"Don't do this to yourself."

"Huh?"

"This… don't… don't do it. There's no reason to," I fumble around with the words. Why can't I make a solid point?

She blinks. "Do what?"

"…_This,_" I say, gesturing wildly with my hands. "Hurting yourself. Trying to kill yourself. Don't do it."

She's probably like me right now, extremely sleep-fogged and tired, so our conversation isn't exactly going along very coherently or fluidly. "But… why not?"

I wish I had a hot bath right now. Maybe some hot chocolate too. But there's this first. "Because… there are people out there who don't want you to die."

"If you're talking about those psychologists or whatever, fuck them. I don't see anybody out here with me right now," she retorts.

Wow, she must _really_ be out of it. Sitting up, I say, "I'm not a hallucination, you know. I'm a real, live person, right here, trying to keep you alive and risking my own life in the process."

"… Why?"

"I… I don't know," I respond, only partially telling the truth. If she's a chick, she should be able to figure out I've got a crush on her on her own, or maybe she's just not used to this sort of thing. But there's no reason to go blurting things out that will probably make her laugh. "I guess I just… I don't want to see you die."

When I get warm again, it is going to feel so good.

"…Oh," the skinny girls says simply. Her guard must be down when she's exhausted, because she sits up, too. I hope that it'll leave an impression on her when she gets back to her senses. But for now, I think it's worked, because her tone had no signs of sarcastic implications. I stand up and reach a hand out to her, and she takes it and pulls herself up, too.

I know I'm blushing. _Goddamnit, Kyle, you're being a dork,_ I tell myself, _Stop it!_

She looks at me curiously, before saying, "You should get inside… and… so should I."

I feel hopeful now.

* * *

I glance over to the digital clock that's sitting on the night stand next to my bed right after I flop down onto it. 4:06 a.m., its blinking red lights tell me. That's great; I can probably get in about three hours of sleep.

Falling asleep isn't hard when you're exhausted. Waking up after not much sleep, though, is. And getting a face full of worried-yet-also-pissed-and-also-over-protective-as-well-as-bitchy Jewish mother isn't the best way to come back to the conscious world.

"Kyle, bubbie, what are you doing here?"

"AAAAAAAH! MOM! WHAT ARE—HOW— …eh?"

I jump up as I scream this, terrified out of my mind. Quickly regaining my senses, I scramble back under my blanket and curl up into a ball. The cover is pulled off immediately, and I'm left to cower with no sort of defence. At all.

"Kyle," she says sternly to me, "what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be back at the hospital?"

"I… uh… I…"

She gives me a stern look. "Where have you been?"

I fall backwards off of my bed, so at least there's some sort of sturdy, stable structure between us. Peeking over the edge of the mattress, only far enough so that I can barely see her, I mutter, "Outside hey shouldn't I go be getting readyforschool?" increasing the volume, as well as the speed, of my voice as I go on.

"What what WHAT!" she cries out. "What were you doing outside? For how long?" She lifts up my hat and presses her palm against my forehead immediately. "You're burning up! Oh, Kyle, you can't afford to get sick after that! It's chicken noodle soup and bed for you!"

"But I—"

"No buts, Kyle!" she cries out angrily. "You're sick and need to stay at home!"

I stare at her in disbelief. "Aw, but, come on! People are going to think I'm dead or something! Besides, I don't feel sick!" The truth is, now that she's brought up the possibility, my mind has decided to tell my body to go along with it, and I'm stuck trying to keep coughs in my throat. "Besides, what about all the work I'll miss—"

She waggles a finger in my direction. "No means no, Kyle. Do you know how many other kids would just take the opportunity to stay home?"

"But I don't want to fall behind anymore…" I try to plead.

Mom sighs in frustration. "Alright, Kyle. If you think you're so well off then you can try going today, but any more signs of sickness and—!"

"Thanks Mom gotta get ready now bye!" I interrupt her hurriedly, pushing her out of my room and shutting the door, thanking god that she didn't pursue her questions about what I was doing outside.

Realizing that I'm still in a god awful hospital gown, I shed that immediately, and scramble to clean myself up so I'm not late for the bus.

* * *

After all these years, it's still the same bus stop, and it's still the same four of us, and it's still the new bus driver ever since Ms. Crabtree was killed back when Cartman thought he had psychic powers. It's almost just routine now, to go and stand there, sometimes even at random. It's just what we've always done. The transition through different schools has done nothing.

When I get there, I see Stan only standing there, waiting, meaning that I'm rather early. I jog up and take my normal place next to him. He must have been daydreaming, because the sound of my footsteps causes a slight jerk in his otherwise still movements and his eyes fall on me. A smile lights up his face. "Hey, Kyle! You doing good now?"

I return his grin. "Better," I responded, and that was it before we took up our old positions of staring ahead blankly, waiting for either the rest of our group, or the bus, to arrive, whichever came first.

While standing there, I caught Stan glancing at my injured arm a few times. It kinda made me feel paranoid, so I grasped it with my right hand nervously, and met his gaze. His eyes flickered back to the other side of the road, like nothing had happened. But nothing really had, so, I guess that'd make sense.

Not long after, Kenny came walking up, Cartman following him at a much slower, lumbering pace. Upon seeing me, the orange hoodie-clothe blond increases his pace and takes up a spot on my other side. Cartman takes the spot next to my best friend, turning his head away from me and folding his arms in a huffy manner. Makes me wonder what's up his ass _now_.

Kenny, on the other hand, quickly regains my attention. "So dude, you're okay now?"

"Yeah, I think so," I reply, and cough. He raises a sceptical eyebrow at me, and I grin weakly and say, "Eh, I was outside for a while last night…"

"Why were you—never mind. Look, yesterday, with Cartman—"

"Fuck Cartman," I cut him off bitterly. "We go through that crap all the time. I know he's _your_ best friend and all but really—"

Now it's his turn to cut me off. "Yeah, and I'm sure you wouldn't like it too much if somebody said, 'Fuck Stan,' to your face." Upon hearing his name, Stan whips around from what I assume could have been his trying to talk to Cartman, and gawks at Kenny, who quickly says, "No, not really. I'm just using you as an example." Satisfied, my best friend turns back around, and Kenny focuses on me again. "You know that he's still your friend, too."

"Define friend," I scoff.

"Well… it's…" he struggles with the right words, "It's kind of like… it's just… a _different_ type of friendship. Yeah. I mean, you guys have hung out together for _how_ long now? Twelve years? Thirteen?"

"And I've never known why."

He glares at me. "Look, Kyle, I know he doesn't treat you well, but different things work for different people. Give him another chance… and _don't _say what I know you're thinking. Okay?"

I sigh in frustration. "Fine. But only because I value you as a friend, Kenny." He doesn't look like that's good enough for him, but there's no reason to continue, since the bus pulls up. I take my usual seat next to Stan and wonder why Kenny had tried bringing up Cartman with me again. It's not like I never get over it, by the next day or week, we're usually fine again.

* * *

High school in South Park sucks. It's not bad enough that elementary school had to be horrendous, too, because of all the crazy shit that happens around here, but then when you combine that with all the girls going bitchy on each other and trying to take it out on us – the boys – and it's just worse. None of us have a quarrel with each other, but the girls just love their dramas so much that they feel the need to mimic what they see on TV.

And they're just so damn emotional.

Sure, I'm probably exaggerating, but when you compare it to us guys, who are much more simple and blunt instead of lying, cheating, and back-stabbing.

The worst bit is that it's not like when we were younger, and just avoided each other like the plague. There's pressures now about being in a couple, and if you just stick with your own sex's company, then you're considered gay.

I know some of the girls do think I am. I avoid the female population of freshmen simply because they're not _interesting_. They're _boring_. They're _stupid_. We're all just typical hick white-trash, and there's no exception for the girls. (It doesn't help with some of my dad's… tendencies, either. I know nobody else in this building really knows anything about them, but when I get called a fag, it kinda makes me squirm.)

I don't see Henrietta anywhere, but then again, I've never really noticed her in school before. The only reason I know who she is is because of Stan and some occasional really low self-esteem problems he's had before. I mean, she's the kind of person someone like me would avoid. Her values make no sense, and she's failing most of her classes simply because she just doesn't care about anything. I'm up in all the higher levelled stuff, and I don't think I've ever gone out to the back of the school, which is where she typically is, so I just don't run into her.

I shouldn't be worried about her.

I should be worried that I have an entire day's work of school to catch up on, and it's definitely not going to be fun. I head over to my locker while my friends wander off to go do who knows what, just so they can scramble when the five-minute warning bell rings to collect their stuff. People tell me I'm the one of the very few who are actually going to make it somewhere out of South Park, simply because I actually care about my grades. Cartman gives me one lingering look with an expression on his face that I can't decipher.

I cough a few times while rooting through my things, recalling from memory that English is my first class. It's the only one that I share with my main group. Somehow we all have qualities that allow us up into higher level. For me, it's just a general smartness thing, I've been told. Kenny has been told he's great at expressing emotions, which I can only assume must come from his habit of dying. It probably gives him quite a bit to think about. Cartman knows how to come up with something interesting and tell a good story, and Stan just knows what grammar and spelling are, a step up from most of the kids in here.

I feel kind of crappy, but I'm sure it's nothing. My left arm is stinging but I'm also sure that it's still just nothing. I hear a timid cough behind me and I'm sure it's nothing.

That is until I'm lightly tapped on the shoulder a few times. I spin around and see Red there, lightly blushing. I'm thankful for Red because she takes the physical qualities I'm most known for – red hair and shortness – and goes beyond me. She's the shortest freshman in South Park, and when you have a nickname like Red, well… it's just self-explanatory.

"What is it Red?"

She rubs her ankle with her foot nervously. "Uh, Kyle, I just thought… since you missed yesterday and all, we got two new projects in English, and, well… I just thought I should tell you what they are before we actually go into class, just so you're up to date… Is that okay?"

"Go for it," I answer, and she looks much more relieved, for some reason.

Red sighs before continuing. "Well, we got two new projects yesterday—"

"Two?"

"Yeah, two," she says, flustered, "The first one is… well, it's an individual project… we were each assigned an emotion, based on what our teacher thought was the perfect one for us, and we have to write a narrative on that particular emotion…" Her voice trails off, slightly nervously.

"So, which one did I get…?" I ask her, not sure if I want to know.

"Well, uh… she gave you anger, because that's the most prominent emotion she's seen from you in class."

Great. That gives me _more_ reason to hate Cartman. At the very least, writing from an angry perspective is easy, but still… getting an assignment to write on anger because the very _teacher_ thought it was best for me… I don't really like that part. Is that what other people see from me when I'm around that boy, or what? I don't even know if I can even follow what Kenny tried saying to me before.

I stand there, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists, imagining ways I'd really like to kill the fat slob, if it's his affects on me that get me this kind of reputation. I can just imagine what he got, probably "cockiness" or "humour" or something like that. It just makes me hate him even more. He's so carefree, and relaxed, and, well, it pisses me off. A lot.

I remember Red is still there when she coughs nervously, looking down at her shoes. "Oh, uh…" I stumble on my words, "You… you said there was another project, right?"

She blushes at my words. "Oh, uh, yeah… we're supposed to write a mini-novella sorta thing, due at the end of the year, in partners… um, you and I got paired up together…"

"'k, thanks, Red," I mutter in response, turning back to my locker to look for my English. For somebody who does so well in school, I'm not exactly very organized. I hear her skitter away from behind me.

Girls are weird.

The five minute warning bell rings, and I scramble to find all of my stuff and rush to the English room. Upon arrival, I find every eye in there, except for those who have already seen it, is on my left arm. I guess word gets around fairly quickly, but… it's kinda really, really scary.

After announcements and introductions, Red and I decide to spend our time trying to get to work on our project. I can easily do my individual project at home. It's awkward, though, trying to come up with an idea and her constant giggling, and people stopping by at every chance they get to inquire about what happened to me.

I feel sick. I feel really, really sick. I wish people would stop asking me if I'm okay. I _was_ okay before, but now, I just feel sick. I was on the way to forgetting what had happened. It was just a nagging little thought in the back of head since Henrietta came along, but now, it's just horrible.

Stop inquiring! _Stop! _This isn't doing me any good. My mind is clouded. I can't think straight. I'm being forced to relive the memory, in complete detail. The events that ended up landing me in a hospital. All that blood… it… it was sick… the warning… and… I'm scared. I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared, I think I'm going to throw up.

Shakily, I cut off my conversation with Red and rise from my seat, slowly and uncertainly, and then I bolt out the door. "Like a bat out of hell," and I just run, and run, and run. I'm not in school anymore, the sun isn't out anymore. It's dark out, I'm in the foothills, snow is around me, with a few trees over to the side. The shadow emerges from them and I panic again, putting on another burst of speed, trying to elude it… him… whatever it was… just, don't happen like it did before, don't catch me, don't, I didn't do anything, don't don't don't don't don't, please, don't—

"Kyle!" A hand grasps my shoulder, halting me. I try to cry out but my voice is gone. I'm whipped around and staring directly into the eyes of…

"…Stan?"

It feels like I'm being sucked back into the real world, now, and it's all just back to normal instantly, with no real transition or anything. I feel dizzy. Stan is supporting me and keeping me from falling down.

"Kyle, what the hell is wrong with you?" he asks, holding me up.

I feel so confused, wasn't I just… but… if… oh, god. "Stan, I… It… I can't _take it_. Their constant asking, and, it's just, _shut up_! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Stop asking me about my arm, what got me into the hospital, it… it wasn't my own doing, and… oh, god!" I wail.

Stan gently lowers me to the ground, trying to calm me down. "Shh, Kyle," he says, gently and in a soothing voice, "Look, it's okay. You need to come back with me now, and it's going to be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"Yes, yes it will! Something bad _is_ going to happen! And I didn't _do_ anything! Stan, _I didn't do anything_!" Everything's a blur. I feel Stan's hand wiping across my eyes. I take a direct look into his piercing blue ones, and only see worry in there.

"Look, Kyle…" he tries, "I don't know what happened, but you're safe now. You're in the company of hundreds of other people, in broad daylight, in a public building. You're going to be okay for now. Just… come back with me, okay?"

I swallow air and nod loosely. "O…okay," I respond, and allow him to assist me up, much like I had helped Henrietta earlier. Upon reaching the room again, every eye is once again on me, and I feel even uneasier than before, now that it feels like I don't know anything once again, other than the fact that the threat is still out there…

I wish the ground would rise up and swallow me whole.

* * *

The first half of the day hasn't been easy, _at all_. Ever since English I've had to deal with even more inquiries, more panic attacks, although not quite as bad as the first one, and feeling more hostility towards Cartman that normal, although I'm not sure why. But by the time lunch rolls around, I'm feeling terrified.

I take a seat down at our usual table, but it's just Kenny and I there.

"Kyle, do you know where Stan is?" he questions me, taking a bite into his sandwich.

"Uh… yeah," I say, "He said he had to work on something for extra credit for science. I don't know why he just doesn't come to me; he knows I'd be willing to help him out."

I'm met with a glare from my friend. "Well, some of us try to have pride, Kyle, and not depend on others all the time," he says bitterly, and starts focussing more on his food than me. An awkward silence ensues. Is this really the kind of message I give out to people? Why am I second-guessing myself all of the time, suddenly? I finally get the courage to ask him something that's been bugging me for a while after a few minutes of questioning myself.

"Hey, Ken…" my voice trails off uncertainly, until I see him look up to see what I want, "Do you know what's up with Cartman lately… or where he is? He was all in my face yesterday, but today he won't even glance my way, and when he does, it's… odd, to put it simply."

Kenny looks uncomfortable. "Well, uh… I don't really know where he is, but, uh, I think it's more his place to tell you about… stuff than it is mine," he answers, and no conversation is continued. Not liking the silence, and feeling paranoid, I finish my lunch as quickly as I can and leave the room to get some air.

And bump straight into Cartman on my way out.

He hardly notices me, but screw air, it can wait – I'm sick of this "ignoring Kyle" attitude he's got going now. Yell at me, at least, do _something_! Before he can continue walking on his way, I grab his chubby arm and pull him over to the side.

"Okay, look, fatass," I start off, indignantly, "What the hell is going on with you? Tell me what's up; why you keep ignoring me and passing by me like I don't exist."

"Look, Kyle—"

I prod a finger into his gut. "Tell me!"

"I—"

This isn't the Cartman I know. "The Cartman I know never beats around the bush. Tell me what's up."

This seems to give him a bit of confidence. "Heh, yeah, I guess that's true. But, well… Okay, you want to know so badly?" he asks, the usual note of Cartman-sarcasm back in his tone.

I nod. "Yeah."

As the words leave his mouth, I wish I hadn't nodded. I wish I hadn't said anything, I wish I hadn't pulled him over. I feel sicker than before, and ask him to repeat what he said, just to confirm that I heard him correctly, you know. My hearing is working. My mind isn't playing more tricks on me. And he obliges.

"Kyle, I think I'm in love with you."


	5. Yeah, No Thanks

_You people consider yourselves **damn lucky** that you're getting an update while there's Olympics to be watching. GO CANADA._

_Anyway, uh, thanks for all of the positive feedback! From the looks of it it seems like I threw some of you for a loop. Well, uh, don't worry about that, there's plenty more to come. Oh, and, yes, I am semi-fluent in Hebrew, so at any point you see any, no; I'm not making it up._

_And as I sit here, at 4:00 a.m. on a Monday morning, another idea for this story came to mind. And, uh, I thought about it, and, uh, from some of the stuff I have planned, it, uh, it fits in perfectly, so consequently the end of this chapter turned out a bit different than what I had originally planned, but, hey, that's writing! (And as somebody who's not afraid to write gore, I advise those of you who don't like reading it to watch out. Eeheeheeheehee. Don't worry, though, this chapter is clean.)_

* * *

Sometimes, when you get told the most shocking thing _ever_, you have a panic attack and you cease to breathe, or even function properly at all. Suddenly the easiest tasks seem like the job of Atlas. Thinking goes from words and images flowing in a steady, logical stream to a jumbled mass of explosions and noises. Breathing goes from something you don't have to think about to something you _do_ have to think about, and while your mind is collapsing inside of itself, it doesn't work out with the most desirable results.

Standing up properly, or even at all, becomes all together absolutely impossible.

I stagger back and hit the wall. Attempting, and failing, to find some kind of stronghold, I fall down, my back sliding against the wall the whole way. It takes everything in me to keep me from even just sitting upright. "You… you _what_…" I gasp out, feeling even more confused that ever.

Cartman has stood still throughout my whole ordeal, with no clearly visible expression or emotion. "Look, Kyle…" he attempts to communicate with me, and holds his hand out, to help me up, I assume. But I can't do anything more than squeeze my eyes tightly shut and turn my head away, willing for this to all be just some kind of twisted nightmare – but I've had enough of those.

"Kyle, look at me."

"No."

"Look at me."

"_No._"

I hear a sigh and feel my chin being lifted up, out from my neck where I had pushed it in. My eyes open in an instant, and there's Cartman staring right back at me. If it had been anybody else, it would have creeped me out, but considering that it was _Cartman­_ – my _male_ friend/enemy – that just made everything else worse. I scramble backwards nearly tripping over myself as I manage to shakily stand back up.

"… Why," I finally spurt out after a bit of silence, him still kneeling on the ground, and me with my back pressed up against a locker, leaning on it for support, my chest heaving in what seems like spasms. I'm hyperventilating. I don't really see anything in front of me, but I bet he wants me to elaborate. But I can't see. Still, I'll oblige. "How… I mean, how could _you_ love _me_? Don't you hate me?"

From the noise I hear, I think he's stood up. "… Yeah, he says, "I do." I blink in confusion.

I also now know how a blind man must feel. I… I can't see _anything_. It's like a portion to my brain has just stopped functioning, and that part happens to control my eyesight. And I know for a fact that my lids are indeed open, and as to why I can't see… it makes no sense. None of this does.

"But if you hate me… then, why—"

"I don't know!" he suddenly shouts, and his voice is a lot louder than I anticipated, causing me to panic again and almost fall down again. I feel him grip my arms, and I attempt to struggle away, but his hold is a bit too strong. "I don't KNOW why!" he cries out again, and I'm able to hear him quite clearly over my fast breathing. "It's just… I don't even know why! I don't even like you, _you_ don't like _me_, it should be mutual! But… I just don't know! I'm not a faggot, I _can't_ be. But somehow I'm just _attracted_ to you. And it's _not my choice_.

"When I saw you yesterday afternoon, just lying in that hospital bed, you looked so pitiful and weak, and something inside me just melted at it! Like… it wasn't me directly, but the root to it, I'm the one who got you in there. _I_ did something that affected _you_ so strongly, and something in me just broke… and… Do you think I want this? Do you think I _like_ this? It may be a little sudden and I hope it goes away, but seeing you in _any _kind of helpless state, it just… gets to me!

"Stop scrambling! Stop panicking, just… just stop it!"

I cease immediately. I still can't see, and I still can't really do anything, but if I stop freaking out, maybe he'll leave me alone. Maybe he'll be right and it'll be a passing thing. _God_, I hope so. Cartman's always been the intolerant asshole, and I'm the cause of him becoming what he hates. Some kind of minority.

Worse yet, _I'm_ a minority, too, so it must be double pain for him.

I don't care how much he's hurting, though. I can't see, and I'm the one who's caused this to happen to begin with. I had no intention to fuck things up. Our relationship has never been the best, but now, it's just so much worse.

Although, to be fair, we both did a bit of fucking up. It's not just me. I'm just the one who can't see anything right now. I'm calming down a bit and nothing is coming back. This, in turn, is causing me to panic some more again, so I'm not really making any progress.

He's still gripping onto me, though, but I feel too sick to do anything about it.

"So, Cartman… does… does anybody else know about this?"

"Kenny," he answers, without skipping a beat. I guess that's to make sense. Stan and I tell each other almost everything, and although Cartman and Kenny aren't on the same level of friendship as Stan and I, they're still pretty close. That would also explain how Kenny was trying to touch the subject gently around me.

"And… that's it?"

"Yeah."

Well, if anything good could come out of this, I have blackmail material, now. And maybe if Cartman will go away, my vision will come back. I'll have an easier time thinking, at least. "So… we'll just hope this all goes away, and blows over?" I ask, feeling meek.

"… Yeah," he says again, and drops me rather harshly. I feel his eyes sweep over my body, but I can't actually see it for myself to confirm. The sound of steps walking away from me assures me that I'm alone again.

I lean back against the wall, and my breathing returns to a regular pace. The first thing that I think of, that just naturally comes to mind when I think of Cartman, is scam. Some kind of scam. He might just be faking this to get me to do something stupid, after all, he is great at coming up with schemes and acting. But I can't think of a good reason as to why he would risk his own reputation. He knows for a fact that given the chance, I would take any material I have on him and use it against him, as long as it's tasteful, or if I'm in a blind rage. I do have morals, after all.

But if he isn't faking it, it… it just feels so surreal. Like it _can't_ happen. If sexuality is determined by genetics, then, by all means, it's a full possibility, but I've known that kid for most of my life. He's vicious. He's an asshole.

He must be killing himself over this. I guess having a crush on one of the people you've known for years, particularly when you're the same sex, has got to be shocking.

But I wouldn't know. I never will know. Fortunately, I'm straight, and therefore have a completely good reason to turn him down and try to avoid this whole thing.

Although he himself did say that he still hated me, meaning this is a physical attraction only, and strongest when I'm helpless, as he said. This is even worse for us, considering the fact that since _that_ happened late at night a few nights ago, I feel incredibly helpless. I'm sure most would.

And something at the back of my head tells me it's not going to go away. So this isn't going to go away, either.

I have no clue what the fuck I'm going to do. Hoping and waiting for it to all blow over only gets you so far. At the very least, though, the only emotions I have to control and fidget with are fear, while he's stuck with the love card. I'll still take fear over love any day in this situation.

Even if it could kill me. I'm that desperate to get away from this whole thing.

So even if it _does_ come back, maybe I should welcome the chance to die with open arms, even if it is the easy way out. I sure as hell want to continue living, but, really, this is just pretty fucked up right here. But as long as I don't blab, I should be fine. And as long as I'm not pressured, I won't blab. I should talk to Tweek about dealing with pressure.

Hopefully I'm making a bigger deal out of this that it needs to be. Yeah, that should be it! I'm just blowing this out of proportion and exaggerating. It's okay. It'll all be okay, and nothing is going to happen. Not with it, and not with Cartman. As long as I casually forget both events, then everything will be fine. I can see again, so everything is already getting better! Eheh, yay for enthusiasm and optimism! It works wonders. Eheh. Eh.

I groan. I don't feel confident at all. Having your vision fade back into the real world to only be met by some grubby, ghetto high school walls and floor isn't very heartening. It's dirty and disgusting. I'd stand the hell up right now if I felt like such a task was possible for me. I'd get up and walk away right now if I could, like the two pairs of legs I can see walking before me.

Except one stops and so does the other, and one starts bending down, and I'm met by Butters' face. "H-hey Kyle, are you okay?" he asks, and I hear a snort coming from above.

"Yeah, that's exactly why he's lying on the floor, dazed," a voice with a slightly obnoxious ring to it says, and I can tell right away that it's Heidi. It's really funny that one of the toughest freshman girls and one of the wimpiest freshman boys get along together so well, but Butters and Heidi do. I'm not sure when the friendship connection was made for them, but it happened, and they're pretty close to inseparable. Butters glares back up at her.

Before he gets the chance to argue, I speak up, saying, "Y-yeah, I, I think I'm okay, now, maybe, kinda…" God, I'm pathetic. I suck. Do I have no certainty anymore, or what? Can't I give a straight answer to anybody?

Straight. Ahah. Ha. Ha. Cartman, I hate you.

Now Heidi leans down, and I can see concern on her face. "Wait, what happened?"

"It's, uh… it's not really my place to say," I gulp, hoping they won't press it any further.

That seems to be good enough for Butters, but not quite for Heidi. "Yeah, I'm sure it's not," she huffs, rolling her eyes. I've never really realized it before, but she makes a good female Cartman. "C'mon, spill. At least give the general idea."

"It was just something shocking. That's it."

"Does it have anything to do with your craziness during first period?" Butters pipes up. Ah, crap, I forgot that he's also in that class.

Heidi, who isn't, looks confused. "Wait. What happened, exactly?" she asks. I'm unwilling to answer, but I'm sure Butters has it covered. Goddamnit.

"W-well," he starts off, "We were working on our projects, and since this one is in pairs, it wasn't just quiet-sit-in-your desk kind of work. But Kyle just kinda shakily stood up, but I think he nearly fell a couple of times—"

I almost fell?

"—and he was completely pale, his eyes were wide and roving—"

What?

"—all the while tugging at something underneath his left sleeve. He looked like he was in pain, but continued to do it, didn't stop or anything—"

_I tried to rip out my fucking stitches?_ I grab my left arm immediately. Heidi's eyes shoot straight to it.

"—and he dashed right out. Stan was sent out to retrieve him after a bit, and Kyle came back looking much calmer."

… I didn't feel calm at all.

"Yeah, but," I butt my way back into the conversation, "that wasn't the cause for this."

Butters stares at me wide-eyed. "Kyle, are you okay?" he asks, obviously concerned.

Heidi is still inspecting my arm. "Broflovski, you're one fucked up kid."

"Gee, thanks," I respond immediately, glaring at her.

She shrugs. "Well, what happened to you, then?"

"It's not my place to say," I firmly answer.

"Aww, please?" she begs, wanting to get in on it. "I'll be your best friend!"

I roll my eyes. Butters crosses his arms and huffs. Heidi sighs. "Just… just a general idea, please? Even a genre or something!" she pleads, and I turn my head off to the side. "I'm not going to stop bugging you until you tell me," she announces, popping her head into my line of sight, grinning madly.

"Heidi, come on," Butters attempts to pull her away, "If Kyle doesn't wanna talk about it, then we should leave him alone."

She smacks him away, and he retreats instantly. "Ah, shaddup," she snaps at him, and turns her attention back to me. "So Kyle, what happened? So Kyle, what happened? So Kyle, what happened?"

In an attempt to get off and ignore her, I plug my ears, close my eyes, and start shouting, "LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOOOUUU!" However, it doesn't work so well, as I can still hear her in the background, plus she's attempting to remove my hands from my ears.

To avoid more annoyance and frustration, I give in, taking my hands off of my ears while she herself was trying to pull them off, causing her to fall down. The brown-haired chick glares at me, but her expression lightens up when I say, "Alright, alright! It was in the area of… romance. Okay, happy?" all the while rubbing my temples with my index finger and thumb.

She gets up, looking displeased. "Pff," she blows a strand of hair out from her eyes, "That's so typical of high school. Are you sure there wasn't anything else?"

Butters has a better understanding of the situation. "W-wait," he pipes up, redirecting our attentions back to him, "What could have been so bad about something to do with love?" Heidi's eyes fall back on me in suspicion, and in a silent agreement.

"It's, uh… it's… not my place to say?" I don't feel so certain anymore, but I don't want to elaborate any more. I know that I hate Cartman, but I could never stoop to his level, and I don't want to. It sounds like great fun, but I don't feel like I could live it down. After what happened, I feel like I have a bigger obligation to act a decent person and treat others the same.

Heidi rolls her eyes again at this repetition. "You sound like a broken record. Come on, love drama isn't anything."

Butters snickers in the background. "You're not one to talk, you know."

She almost seems to snarl at him. "Butters. SHUT. UP. NOW."

I look back and forth between the two. "Uh, somebody want to let me in?" I ask. Heidi looks about ready to pounce on Butters and beat the living hell out of him.

In a sing-song kind of tune, Butters chimes, "Heidi's got a little cru-ush!"

"_Leopold_, shut UP!"

"Ohh, who is it?" I come in, humouring Butters.

He shrugs. "Iunno," he says, "S-she's never really told me who. I-I've just kinda figured it out on my own."

I grin maliciously at the girl. "So Heidi, who is it? So Heidi, who is it? So Heid—ow!" I glare at her when she punches my left arm and rub at it. "There's stitches in there, you know. Be careful."

"Oh, so in that case, your right arm is fair game?"

"Yes—what? No!" But it's too late for me. Rubbing both arms at once is annoying.

"Actually I _do_ know who it is," Butters grins. Just as he's about to spill, Heidi slaps her hand over his mouth, but I did manage to catch an "Eri--!" from the fair-haired freshman.

…

I hate life. I hate irony.

"Cartman?"

"Shut _up_!" she snaps at me.

"Fat ass?"

"Shut up."

"Tubby?"

"Shut uuup."

"Lard butt?"

"Stuff it up your _aaassss_…"

"Two-chins?"

"Kyle, I'm going to make you fucking bleed."

"Whore-for-a-mom?"

"Kyle, I'm going to _break your fucking arm_. What you have right now won't be _nothin'_."

"H-hey," Butters chimes in, forcing his friend's hand off of his mouth, "violence isn't the answer."

She punches him and he joins me in the club of arm rubbings. "At least I'm not in denial when somebody has a crush on me," and she stands up and stalks off moodily. I raise an eyebrow at Butters.

He sighs. "She's convinced that Annie has a crush on me."

I lean forward a bit and rest my chin on my knees. "Dude, even _I_ can tell that she does."

"… No she doesn't!" he insists, knocking his knuckles together in uncertainty.

"Yeah, dude, she does."

"No—she—ah, well, even if she did…"

"Look, dude, Butters, you're a great guy. You're still innocent-like and sweet and kind and not corrupted or anything like that. Stop having so much doubt in yourself. Sure, you may be a bit of a wuss, but we've all got our own faults, and nobody out there is perfect. Just live with it, and, you know, try to get some more confidence?"

I'm one to talk. Confidence? Then again, I guess teenaged love and crushes can't really be considered on the same level as murder and the threat to kill. Both have broken hearts, but there's a big difference between the figurative sense and the realistic, literal one.

And the realistic one is gory.

I don't think I've ever really noticed how disgusting this place really is, but the whole thing shouldn't surprise me at all. Faded yellow stains litter the place, among other things that I don't even want to think about. It vaguely registers in my mind that I'm alone again. When did I suddenly get so unobservant, and my senses so unintact? Is that even a word? Unintact?

I rise again, feeling disoriented again. _Od pa'am_. That's Hebrew for "once again." At least I know that there's still not going to be any class for… um, a couple more minutes, at least. I don't really know.

There's a dark reddish-brownish stain on the wall my back is towards. I can see it out of the corner of my left eye.

… Is it blood?

No. It can't be. I mean, even if it was, then so what? I mean, sure, there's plenty of fights or violence between people here. In my grade alone, all the chicks' catfights (and if Wendy or Heidi is involved, it can get bloody). Token and I. Stan and Craig. Cartman and Clyde. Jimmy and Timmy, sometimes, either from a fight against each other or just plain fuck ups that come from being crippled. Tweek in general. Kenny and everybody. Kenny and the occasional spontaneous combustion that only happens sometimes now.

I instantly grab my left arm again. I hold onto it for dear life.

I don't wanna see blood ever again. I don't wanna see a dead body like that ever again. **_Ever_.** Kenny I can maybe stomach, though. I've got no coordination. I can't handle anything, I can't run from anything. I've got book smarts. Not street smarts. _Book_ smarts. And fuck athleticism while I'm at it, no point in even starting there.

Um, I also don't like cold, dark, spooky, abandoned-like places anymore, either.

_Get me out of this goddamned school! Get me out of this goddamned town! _

_Get me away from **him**! _Cartman, who—whoever that was, the—the—the—it… _thing_…

I want to die, I want to die, and I want to die. My left arm hurts. Am I tugging at it?

Um.

I think a stitch just came out.


	6. Here and Now

_Sorry for the delay – I got depressed over the Olympics' end (eeee, Canada did SOWELL), and, fact of the matter is… I'm still kinda depressed over it, ahah. PLUS I got a new video game on Friday, my first since 2004! So I've been playing that._

_I feel kinda bad, though… I wrote this whole chapter in one sitting, and look at how long it took me to actually get around to writing it… aw. Well, at the very least… I'm really looking forward to the next chapter. I've been looking forward to that one for a while now._

_Tried a bit of a different style in this one. By the time I actually sat down here and started writing it, I already knew exactly everything I wanted in here, but it turned out to be more confusing than I thought it'd be. But I just kept writing and writing… the ending to this one wasn't planned, and I'm completely thrilled with how that ended up working out. Plus, it should make this chapter make a bit more sense… I would think._

_But yeah. You go read now. Thanks for all of your positive feedback, people, I really appreciate it! It makes me feel like I'm a good writer, and that's a very nice feeling to have when you enjoy the art._

* * *

Notes are useful things: they can help serve for self-reminders, or inform others of your desires. That doesn't necessarily mean, though, that they're always good – on the former, it depends who has the note. For example, I remember, when I was eleven, I saw a note in Cartman's room reminding him of a new plan to exterminate my people. I grabbed it, ran back home with it, shredded it, burned the shreds over an open flame, and the next day threw the ashes back in his face.

The latter, however, is the here and now. Written sloppily, in a rushed way, in quick, fading black ink, on a small, ripped piece of white lined paper, I found it in my locker as I was getting ready to leave school, home for the weekend. I gaze at it in my hands, not seeing what's in front of me for a moment. Then I look at it, and see the words written upon it, although it doesn't do much good as I still don't comprehend them. It doesn't help much that the writing is squished together and not very legible.

But in a moment of clarity, I can suddenly read it. Even if for just one moment, I'm a fairly speedy reader, so I now know what it says. So I take off, following its single instruction.

* * *

The rest of that Tuesday was hell, but luckily I got a bit of relief in the next few days… although I can't say if it was worth it or not. After ripping out one stitch, I ripped out two more… or at least, I thought I did. A quick run to the bathroom and locking myself in a stall so none would question my arm solved the answer: three middle ones were out, and blood was seeping through. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, wrapped it around the bloodied spots, and pulled my sleeve back down. The rest of the school day proceeded as normal, except during history Pip noted that there was a slight bulge under the sleeve… but a chorus from the entire class of "Shut up, Pip!" dispersed my worries.

When I got home, the paper was disgusting, completely soaked through and bloodied. The top layer was already a medium-ish shade of red, disturbing me as to what would be underneath.

I shouldn't have looked, but I did. The part that had been up against my arm had disgusting black clumps on it, and it was soaked through dark red. My actual arm itself was another mess, but a quick wash under the tap helped fix it a tad… the scabbing was plentiful, so I had the genius idea of picking it off.

Right when Ike decided to walk in to ask me for some help on his sixth grade homework.

He kinda just stood there, blinking and staring, and he dropped his textbook. "MOO-" he started to cry out, but I tackled him down, dragged him inside my room, and slammed the door.

"Ike," I hissed, "_Shut up_ about this. _Nobody_ needs to see this. _Nobody_ needs to know about this." Oh god, I wonder what would have happened to me if my mom found it? I'd have been in a load of shit.

"But—" he protested.

I interrupted him. "Ike, what do you want?"

"But… you arm… it's all bloody and gross…"

I pulled down my sleeve. "There. Happy? Now what is it."

His eyes lowered. "Oh… well… uh… it's this math thing, I guess… Algebra is weird. Can you help me, please, Kyle?"

I helped him with his work. He kept his distance the whole time. After that I went searching, and eventually found a tenser bandage. I used it, and all was well for the rest of the night. I managed to fall asleep with only relatively mild nightmares.

Wednesday came and went. I got a bit of peace. Cartman avoided me, as I did to him. Nothing came up to remind me of what had happened Sunday night. Stan spent the whole day cooing with Wendy. Kenny wasn't there – Jimmy told me that he, Timmy, Cartman, and Kenny had headed out to Stark's pond – which we had gotten back after the initial Wal-Mart fiasco – where one thing led to another, Kenny slipped on some ice, slid down into the pond, avoided drowning, came back up, hit his head on a rock ledge, cracked his head open, literally, and then fell back into the water.

He was back on Thursday, by the way.

But Wednesday was fairly clean. The tenser bandage worked well, I didn't freak out at any point of time during the day, and I spent more time with Butters and Heidi. Things went well. I went to bed hopeful that night, and got crushed the next day, both literally and figuratively.

On Thursday, the first thing that went wrong was meeting up with Cartman.

We attempted to avoid each other, as we had succeeded to the previous day. The only thing that went wrong was that was we slid by each other, our hands brushed against each other. Within a second he slammed me up against the wall.

"_Look, asshole,_" he hissed, "don't EVER do that to me again."

I couldn't help but grin. "You're getting all pissy over one little accident while you've got me pinned up against a wall? _Ooooh, Cartman,_" I said, pretending to flirt.

He jumped away from me as if I was on fire, muttering, "Son of a bitch…" I continued on my way, satisfied.

The next thing was when Stan and I met up with Token and Craig in the afternoon.

The four of us are mature enough guys. I hate Token and Stan hates Craig, and vice versa, but we're mature enough to let it slide. But my encounter with Cartman that morning fucked it up. That along with Kenny's twisted sense of humour.

As we stalked off in separate directions, an anonymous voice – which was later identified to be Kenny's – called out, "Yeah, that's right, run away you little motherfuckers!"

Stan and I stopped in our tracks. I'm sure Craig and Token did, too.

This was when another one – Cartman's – exclaimed, "Aw, what, are you guys scared of us? Fucking pussies! You _know_ we'd slaughter you. Dipshits!"

The four of us whirled around and glared at each other in the eyes at that point. We didn't do anything, just stood there, the four of us, fists clenched, eyes narrowed, breathing heavily. Craig pulled out two middle fingers.

Stan was on him right away. The two struggled about in a wrestling match, with Craig coming out on top first, pinning Stan to the floor. That didn't last long, when Stan kicked out and into his stomach, knocking the wind out of the blue-hatted boy before leaping up himself. It wasn't too long until Craig punched Stan in the face in retaliation, and that was when I decided to jump in, pouncing on Craig and knocking him back to the floor, this time with him landing face-first. That was when Token came in to start strangling me and pull me off his buddy.

Stan went after Token then, as I was struggling to breathe at this point, and when my best friend smashed his side into the black kid's, his grip from my neck was broken and I scrambled off to the side, panting and trying to regain my breath.

No such luck happened for me as the brawl between Token and Stan collided with Craig, and then, in turn, me. That was when the worst thing since Tuesday, at that time, occurred. I ended up on the bottom of a four-man dogpile, which slid across the floor. I was lying on my left arm at the time.

Nothing physically happened, but a rush of images came flooding through my head, and recalling it now, at this moment, as I'm rushing and scrambling and tripping all over myself at five o'clock on a Friday evening trying to get out of my school, in the here and now, it makes things worse.

But then, that entire night came flying through my head at a high speed. Running through the snow, hearing the sounds, glimpsing through the trees, seeing it, gory and disgusting, being grabbed, whisked away to the side, a threat, a slice…

A threat, a slice…

A threat, a slice…

A threat a _fucking slice_ _cutting right through my fucking skin with unimaginable amounts of pain all from one fucking KNIFE!_

I passed out. Apparently, after I was knocked unconscious, I was pretty much ignored as Stan went nuts. He flung Token off – he has no real direct quarrel with him, he later told me – and attacked Craig, and then it was broken up.

When I came to, I noticed that the other three boys were all sitting around me, outside of the guidance counsellor's office. There was talking going on in there, although I couldn't make anything out, so I glanced around at everybody else's faces. Stan was fuming, Token was staring at the ground, and Craig was glaring death threats at anything that moved. I had taken the only alternative option that was left and sat there, brooding.

After a few minutes the door opened up, the principal curtly walked out, and the guidance counsellor, a pretty young blonde who appeared to be in her 20s, signalled for me to come in. So I went in.

"Broflovski… Kyle?" she asked, shifting through her papers. Wow, that's a great counselling method, treat your patient like it's just a file. Nevertheless, I nodded. I was feeling pretty queasy back then, and didn't want to start anything up.

"Alright," she said, shifting through a few more things before she sat up to face me. "Now, I called you in first because I was told you were of a higher priority than the other boys out there…"

I think she wanted me to say something, but I didn't. She sighed and crossed her hands on her lap. "Can you tell me why I was told you were first priority?"

"'Cause apparently I'm both suicidal _and_ crazy!"

"Kyle," she started off, "can you tell me what's wrong? What's causing you to feel this way?"

"Nothing," I replied, "because I'm not actually suicidal, or crazy."

"Well, people seem to think you are," she retorted.

"People aren't always correct," I answered.

"Well, if your behaviour leads others to believe—"

"Then by no means does it mean that others are completely right. Why would it?"

"Well, oftentimes our own perceptions can be biased or wrong… It's fully possible that it's a subconscious thing, and other people are picking up on it, while we ourselves don't," she said, making a good point. Goddamnit.

I paused. "But… that doesn't always mean that that'll be the case, either."

"That's true, too," she said. "But… now, can you tell me what happened? Please? I'm here to help."

I had no hesitation that time. "No."

"And why is that?"

"It's none of your business." God, looking back on it now in my panic-y rush, she could have at least looked and sounded like she cared. Or she could have at least been funny in some way. Chef, he was genuine and honest, and is part of the reason that makes me feel a bit depressed that we all grew up and ended up cutting off our ties to him, somehow. And Mackey… well, at the very least, you could get a laugh from him, and at the most, he could be helpful.

Damnit, I don't want this high school crap filled with its falsity. Things are so much more honest when you're a kid.

But back to the then. "Kyle, I won't judge you—"

"I don't care if I'm judged or not. I just don't want to remember any of this."

She paused for a brief moment. "And… this… what is it?"

"Sunday night."

"And what was—"

"I haven't told anybody. Not the doctors—" shit, that's a point gotten away, I just realized it now— "not my parents, and not even my best friend. Why would I tell you? You're just some stranger I can only assume has been taught the kind of skills necessary for the study of the mind, whereas I trust my best friend with everything. I just haven't told anybody anything because I want it to disappear. I don't want to remember it. If I forget, everything will turn out alright."

Suddenly she seemed to have taken a personal interest. "Kyle, you're a pretty smart kid," she remarked, "But why do you believe that if you simply forget, it'll go away? If it's something of this magnitude, it probably won't."

"Yes it will." I truly believe that. I did back then, and I do now. If I forget it, and spread no details, it will never bloom up, I'll never accidentally spurt it out, and I'll be off free.

"Okay, it won't…" she said, trying a different angle, "But have you thought of the effects that keeping it bottled up inside would have on you?"

…

What? Did she actually ask me that…?

"Um, no," I had answered.

She sighed. "Keeping things bottled up inside never does one any good. You need to get it out somehow. If you don't want to tell anybody, write it down, and then you could destroy the note. Or you could write it in a secret message."

Back then, that sounded like a good idea. But in the here and now… no, I can't risk that, either. There's so many things that could just go wrong if I let it out anywhere…

But before she had given me the chance to comment on her suggestion back then, she changed the subject. "Now, as to the real reason why you're here. What happened in that fight?"

"Well, uh… it was just… well, I dunno, but I think something may have just been set up or something… I mean, Token – he's the black guy – and I are just, like… enemies, for some reason, and Stan and Craig have been, too, and something just happened, and it led to some kinda fight… and… I just… got caught up in it based on this rivalry thing going on… it's nothing, really."

She nodded. "Alright, Kyle, thanks. That's enough for me – you can go now."

I stood up and walked over to the door, and placed my hand on the doorknob… but a sudden thought had struck my mind, and before exiting, I had to ask her.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

"Hmm?"

"… Do you think I'm crazy?"

It seemed to have thrown her off a bit. "Why, no, I—well… what kind of crazy do you mean?"

"Um, crazy-crazy," I answered, puzzled as to what she meant.

"No, no," she said, shaking her head, "Like… paranoia… psychosis… Those kinds of things. Which kind of crazy do you mean?"

"Oh. Uh, paranoia, I think."

She glanced down briefly. "Yeah, I think you are a bit… but if things are as bad as you say they are, then I think you have good reason to be… but… well, what was your mental state like before this event occurred on Sunday night?"

"… Healthy, I think."

"Any signs of aggression?"

"Well, uh… just to Token, although I don't know why… and Cartman."

She paused for a moment. "And… why do you hate this Cartman fellow?"

"Because he's a fat, intolerant, racist, sociopath. Doesn't help things much that he idolizes Hitler and I'm a Jew."

"Oh, my…" her voice trailed off a bit, "Well… what do you two do now?"

"We've both agreed to avoid each other right now, for a more personal reason."

"Kyle… at the mental state you're in right now, I'd suggest avoiding him for the rest of your life, or however long it may take for him to change."

That was when I left the room.

* * *

Back to the present. I've stopped running because, by recalling the events of the past few days, I've forgotten what I was doing. I stare dumbly at the note, but I only see the guidance counsellor's final words to me on it.

_Kyle… at the mental state you're in right now, I'd suggest avoiding him for the rest of your life, or however long it may take for him to change._

I… how could I do that? Stay away from Cartman… forever? I mean, as appealing as the whole idea sounds, I don't think it's very well in the realm of realism. I can't ignore him for the next three and a half years of my life. Sure, after high school it should be easy: I should be going to a prestigious university while he will probably be stuck here, but three and a half years is still a long time for somebody who's only fourteen himself.

And… the whole premise of the idea… I couldn't. I've been hanging around with Cartman since we were just toddlers, and to just cut off all connections with him… I hate him, he hates me, but I just can't see it happening. We've grown up together, and we still _are_ growing up together.

And… well, he's still pretty good for a laugh or two, isn't he? Although that's hardly worth all of the crap I have to go through around him, pre this whole crush thing, but, hey… there's a silver lining on every cloud, or whatever the phrase is.

And besides, maybe, once I forget, the whole crush thing will go away, Cartman will go back to being straight – for now I'm just convincing myself that he's bi, no way he could be the whole way, and I highly doubt I'm some "special exception."

But… there's one other part of what she said that I don't really like.

_Kyle… **at the mental state you're in right now**…_

What did she mean by that? I mean, paranoia couldn't have anything to do with going berserk around one guy, in the violent sense, not the terrified sense. In the violent sense – which is me – that would be completely psychotic.

Psychosis. Thought and perception are severely impaired. I think I'm thinking straight, but that doesn't necessarily mean I am. Everybody thinks that they're thinking perfectly normal. We aren't fit to judge ourselves properly.

Hallucinations and delusions may be experienced. Yeah, I definitely have those. As well as paranoia… I don't know why she asked that one separately, but that's true, too.

Although when one thinks of psychosis, one usually thinks of mentally ill criminals. Or, well, at least I do.

As well as… personality changes, no, I think I'm fine there… and… uh… thought disorganization… Yeah, I've definitely had that…

And… there's also… it's like… there's no proper contact with reality.

Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. Does not being able to see count? Does not knowing what I'm doing right now count? Does it count that I have no clue what is going on, where I am, and continuously lose myself… and does it count that it's been like this the past few days? Oh, _god_, _does it count_? Does that count as losing contact with reality?

Am… Am I actually insane? I mean, well, why do I know all of this stuff to begin with? Is that normal? Is it normal to know so much on such disturbing subjects?

Hell, am _I_ normal? I mean, before Sunday night, I was pretty sure that I was. Now it's been almost an entire week and… I mean… am I actually… The only thing I couldn't relate to myself was a change in personality… but who am I to say if that's happened, too?

No. I don't think it has.

But that's one out of many.

I… I… I'm scared. I'm scared of myself. Are you ever supposed to be scared of yourself? Shouldn't you have complete control of yourself, and know all of your actions and words, and not second guess them like this? Shouldn't you be much more sure of yourself? Shouldn't you know _who you are_?

But… I… I don't think I do, now. I did a second ago, but now… I… I… I…

Kyle Broflovski. Best friend of Stan Marsh. Jew. Resident of South Park, Colorado. Age fourteen. Birthday May 26th. Son of Gerald and Sheila Broflovski. Brother of Ike Broflovski, adopted Canadian. Currently attending South Park High, grade nine, freshman. Known best for favourite green hat. Normal. Normal. Normal.

…

Self-declared insane. Not normal.

I hope to god I'm wrong.

…

Shit… where'd reality go? As my dad likes to say, you can't do anything about the past, you can't predict the future; all you can do is live in the present. Does that also mean live in reality? Because… I don't think I am… meaning what he says applies to normal people only, and is null and void for me.

I look down at the note, still grasped in my hands. I look at my surroundings. I'm standing in front of my locker. But I'm only here so late because of that uneventful detention I received for that fight yesterday, right? _Right? _But I… I haven't moved for two whole hours, since I found this piece of paper. I… I thought I had moved. Run around. Read the note properly.

_I haven't read it at all._

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. This… this can't be good.

I look down at the note once again. I read it properly this time. I dash out of the empty building, praying to god that I'm not too late. This is one of the last things I need right now.

It's dark out… really, really dark out… like that night I was chasing Henrietta. And it's still early evening… when'd it get so dark? What a way to start the weekend.

I dash off, so fast that the snow behind me sprays up. In my hurry I drop the cursed note, but that doesn't matter. I know what it says now, and it's not going to get out of my head this time, no matter how insane I might very well be.

What I once thought had said _Kyle… at the mental state you're in right now, I'd suggest avoiding him for the rest of your life, or however long it may take for him to change_ actually says, _Meet me by the tree_.

And for once I know exactly what she's talking about, and I don't have to second guess myself here.


	7. Literal and Figurative

_Man, I can't believe I didn't mention that things would get much darker. Well, they did. Don't worry if you're not into that kind of stuff, things like this aren't going to be popping up frequently, and they probably aren't going to be any worse than whatever I wrote in here. And the events covered in this chapter do serve a purpose for later on. But honestly, things like this are so much fun to write. I've been waiting for this chapter for a while now; I had a great ending planned out. Actually, I had a few different ideas, but instead I went with something else. And I adore it._

_I apologize for the delay (again, it seems that I'm always doing that now). I've started a few high school courses online, whereas I don't actually start high school for real until September, so I've been a bit busy with that crap._

_Ahah. I wanted to keep this in a bit more of a South Park-y spirit, and include some of the adult characters, too. I had a scene idea for Chef. Guess it's time to scrap it, huh? (Seriously, though, I loved that episode. Since I'm a symbolic person, however, the ending does make me really depressed.)_

_Thanks for putting up with me and my slow updates and confusing chapters. I hope to get out of that within the next few._

* * *

… What's a soul? Because I wanna know if I have one. Are they real, or what?

Religion says everybody has a soul, and that it's immortal and it's not material, but since when has religion ever been right? Then again, it's a popularized theory that many believe in, but, really, what evidence do we have for it?

Or is it just a matter of faith?

I don't have faith in anything. Faith gets you nowhere. If you're wrong, you lose. If you're right, doesn't make a difference, because everybody gets there, anyway. What good is there to having faith in something? It can't be proven. It's impractical and slows down the progress of society and human beings as a whole.

Karl Marx was right, religion _is_ evil. Faith is evil. It keeps people content with only what they have, promising them good after they die. If we're supposed to suffer while we're alive, then what's the point of staying alive? There is none. And if it's only the good that happens to us after we die, then again, what's the point? To suffer for decades and get an eternity of bliss? That's bullshit.

Believing in something popularized by some outdated book is foolish. It's _outdated_. There's no need to follow it anymore; we've got science. Science can actually prove things. It's not this useless little thing. Science moves us forwards, while faith moves us nowhere, or worse yet, backwards. It holds us back.

So if somebody doesn't have any faith, do _they _have a soul? Is it that those with them go on to their happiness and those without simply cease to exist forever, the way death was probably intended? And are those without a soul punished in some way?

Say, by insanity, in the present life? Or is it in some other way, beyond the grave?

But then, if everybody already has a soul, then it's pretty pointless to believe in it, right? It's there and nothing will change that. You'll get into your afterlife based on whether you're a good enough person or whatever there is to believe in.

But I don't like thinking about the future, not in this situation. I'm still running. The distance is a long ways away and I've had a big delay. The future can go fuck itself.

So can faith. I don't believe any good will come out of this. When I get there, I'll find out, but knowing her, and not even knowing me now, it's impossible to be optimistic.

So what, is this some kind of cruel test placed on me and her by whatever god is out there, or something? If there is one, why would it be so heartless and thoughtless? Yeah, you're not getting any kinds of beliefs out of me.

Do criminals have souls? Screw the believing-not believing area for a moment, do killers and rapists and thieves have souls? Or are they stripped away for doing bad and they're left to go suffer in hell eternally? Or are they just like that, and it's the lack of some kind of a soul that caused them to turn down that path?

Judaism taught me that there is no true hell. People go there for a certain amount of time to repent, and then they're admitted back into the Garden of Eden. I can't think of any way for it to be true and work out like that. It must be a spiritual thing.

So if all they are is figurative, putting all your faith and hope into it is stupid. It's a fool's game. I don't want to be a part of it, and if I have to, I want to win.

I don't want to be too late.

I've finally reached the edge of that forested area where Henrietta and I first ended up running to, after escaping the hospital, only four nights ago. I don't know where to go from here, so I'll just trust my instincts.

Instincts have a lot more credibility than faith does.

I need to clear my mind of thoughts if I want it to work, though. So I cease the thinking and simply give in to my body. It's physical, not spiritual, so it can be proven it's there, and it's what ties me to this world, once again giving it more credibility. It's guiding me, weaving me between trees and under branches, preventing me from harm from any patches of ice or sharp branches.

It starts to hail. The pieces are small, so I'm not bothered. One smacks me right on the back of my right palm, and it stings, but there's going to be pain everywhere you go. It only makes sense. Pain keeps us from getting too cocky.

I slide down and underneath two gaping branches, the icy patch underneath carrying me through safely, and spring back up again. I had no idea I could be this athletic. I guess, if I could just stop thinking more often, things would probably come to me a lot easier. Besides, I could use a break from thinking. A nice, big, long break. All it's brought me so far is uncertainty and fear.

…

Shit.

Speaking of fear, I never really noticed that the tree we – Henrietta and I – collided at was near the area I got slashed. Cold chills sweep over my body, and for once, it's not from the weather. I'm distracted for a moment.

Not distracted enough to miss the, "Well, where have ya been?" shouted at me from up ahead… But definitely distracted enough to miss the sharp, flying object coming at me. UFO, make room, it's an SFO right now.

The SFO is a knife. A butcher knife. A butcher knife thrown with such force and accuracy that, as I instinctually throw my hands up to protect myself, it neatly impales the top of my right index finger, just barely scraping the bone and just barely showing its tip on the other side.

I stand stock still for a moment, then fall down on my knees in shock. The soft, powdery snow on the ground breaks my fall, but it's still hailing. The trees, leafless, with only their branches exposed, like a skeleton, provide little shelter.

Probably the most shocking part is that I don't feel any pain whatsoever. I know that I should, but I don't. I stare at the blood slowly flowing down my finger, and, in turn, my hand, in a kind of out-of-it fascination. I don't bother to remove the knife.

Why does it feel so right? Why does it look so right? Should it? I'm pretty sure it shouldn't.

Tentatively, I slide the sharp object out. I stay down on my knees. I look up, and notice Henrietta staring down at me.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Blood. You lose it, you lose your life. All due to that red liquid thingy. Isn't it amazing?"

"Not really," I answer.

She glares disapprovingly. "Well, I think it is."

"Good for you."

She drops down and snatches the knife out of my hands. "What took you so long?" she repeats.

… She's beautiful, but I wouldn't even feel comfortable telling all this to Stan. But there's just something in her… it's just so invoking.

I think there's some saying, like, "the eyes are the window to the soul," or something. If that's the case, every time I've looked in the mirror and seen mine, there's nothing there. There's barely anything in hers, yet still it's like it's demanding me to spill.

I won't. I remain silent. She thrusts the knife is my face, waving it in front of my nose.

"Tell me or I'll cut you up," she calmly declares.

That threat doesn't really scare me, but whatever. "I got lost in my thoughts," I explain, "It's been happening quite a lot recently."

She ignores me, choosing to delicately trace along her veins with the knife. I note that it's bloodier than it could have possibly gotten from the tip merely piercing my finger, but there isn't a spot of blood on Henrietta. I'm the only one here with a wound.

Well, a few wounds, I guess. My left arm hurts. That knife is way too bloody.

… Oh, my _god_.

"Henrietta…" I say slowly, and she stops and looks at me. "Wh—where did you get that thing?"

"I found it lying over there," she shrugs; pointing off to her right, a direction which I know takes you to more open areas, and the foothills. "It was just lying in the snow, so I took it. Do you know why I asked you to come here?"

"_Jesus **CHRIST**!_" I exclaim, realization dawning on me. _That's the original knife that was used to slash my left arm and leave me for dead._

She snorts. "No, not Jesus, retard. I plan on ending it all, here and now." She folds her arms and looks at me defiantly, as if she's daring me to stop her.

I hear her, but I don't register what she says. I have more important things to do. Like gawk at the area in the distance, and have my mind collapse on itself. Again.

_I struggled, I kicked, I bit and scratched and clawed, but it did me no good. His knife pressed up against my neck, and I felt warm, sticky blood edge its way out from the small cut. I didn't cry out in pain, only struggled even more. It went in deeper._

I gingerly touched my fingertips to the side of my neck, under one of the earflaps of my hat. There was a bit of scabbing there. How the hell did I miss that?

"_Let! Go! Of! Me!" I cried out, punctuating every word with some kind of vicious movement. I got no answer, but I refused to scream. If I screamed, people would come running, our position would be given away, the fresh murder would be given away, and I'd be handing over my life. Besides, I don't want to appear cowardly. If I'm fourteen, I should be able to take him, short or not._

_Disgusting, musky, warm breath flowed into my face, making me wrinkle my nose in disgust as the horrible smell entered my nostrils. "Shut up," the voice hissed, "or I'll slit your throat where you stand, and make three."_

_I closed my mouth. There's a time when teenaged defiance needs to come to an end. I could see the grin on his face, yellowed teeth staring back at me, his knife still pressed against my neck._

"_Here, I'll leave you a little warning to remember what should happen if you blab to anybody. It's not just you who's in danger: I'll get your family and friends, too. And I'll be sure to do more than just a quick job with 'em." And with that, he whirled me around, and slashed my left arm: deep and long._

I remember staggering about a bit after that, and… oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, did I say any of that out loud? I am so FUCKED if I did! I quickly turn my gaze from the spot of my initial collapse to where my crush's eyes are. She looks pissed off.

"Hey, did you hear me? I said I'm going to kill myself! Right here!"

"I—then—why'd you want me to come?" I take it those were inner thoughts only. That's good. That's unbelievably good.

"I… I don't want to die alone. I just want somebody near me. I figured you'd be the only one who would understand," she explains.

This statement causes me to laugh a bit to myself, a bit crazily, shoving the details and specifics of the previous event away. "Me? Understand? Ha! In case you forgot, which you obviously did, I risked my own life trying to stop you. I yelled at you for it and beat you down verbally for your ideas. Why the hell would you want me?" I ask, my intolerance dawning on me just now. "And, more importantly, why do you even want _anybody_ around? What, are you too scared?"

She quickly glances the other way, and it's only now that I notice her long, stringy black hair isn't so long anymore. It's been cut down pretty short, and she's even paler than before. She has no makeup on this time, just a black wardrobe. "Well… yes, but I can't go on living like this anymore." Before I get the chance to interrupt telling her to stop being such a pussy, she covers my mouth in a soft manner with her hand. "Let me tell you why."

I stand up, but do nothing more. She takes it as a sign to continue, so she does.

"After we both left, and went our separate ways, I returned home. It was still early in the morning, so my parents weren't awake yet to chastise me. I silently slipped into my room, and laid on my bed, but I couldn't get to sleep. I felt cold. I hid under my warm blankets, but that did little. I just laid there, wide awake. It gave me a chance to think a bit.

"I realized that at this rate, I'm going to end up no where. I'm going to get no where. I'm flunking in all of my classes, and they're already at a pretty low standard. I skip a lot and just go out back and smoke. It helps. It really, really helps. But really, it's not like any of us will be getting out of here, anyway. Probably you guys all in the high level stuff, but the rest of us are screwed. We're stuck. Nobody wants anybody from some small hick town, unless they're holy fuckshit amazing.

"Me, especially. I mean, look at me. Even if I wanted to get out of here, and make a life out there somewhere, I can't. I'm not going to learn anything, and I don't want to. There's no future for me here, especially with my current home life.

"I barely fell asleep. I was in more of a half-daze when my father burst in. 'Henrietta, where've you been?' he yelled. I hoped that if I ignored him, he's go away, but I never get lucky. He marched up to the side of the bed and forced his face into mine. His breath smelled. His teeth are yellow, and he doesn't even smoke. He demanded it again, and to me, it felt like he was going to end up biting my nose off. I whimpered out some feeble kind of reply, and scooted over to the other side of my bed a bit, pulling the blankets up to create some kind of a shield, but it didn't work. He came on closer. I had to tell him what had happened.

"Now, before you go throwing accusations at me, I didn't mention you. I quietly murmured that I had tried suicide, but had been taken to the hospital. He slapped my face and said in a scary, calm voice, 'Continue.' So I did. I mentioned that I had escaped from the place and had come back here.

"Then he stood up. Oh, god, he stood up. And he did it so calmly at first, but then burst into a fit of rage. He stomped all over my room, throwing what few possessions I have up against my walls and breaking most of them. I was scared, so I tried to hide. He yanked me out by my hair, and dragged me down the steps in that same fashion. When we entered the kitchen, I managed to grasp a pair of scissors, so I cut my hair off. Then I made a scramble, since I had freed myself, and tried to run out the door.

"I got out," she lightly breathes, but if that's the case, I can't tell why tears are starting to well up in her eyes. I watch and listen on, trying to decide if I should be callous or compassionate, just because I think she's pretty. Fucking hormones.

"I got out," she repeats, "but so did he. He came out with me. I ran through the streets, at some early time in the morning, because it was still dark out, still wearing that infernal light blue gown and no shoes. It was freezing, and I was sure that if I didn't die by my father's own hands, I'd die from nature's. But after not too long, he caught up to me, and tackled me down onto the asphalt. I got scraped all along my arms and knees. When he hoisted me up, there was blood."

She lifts up her arms to demonstrate, and her long sleeves fall back a bit. I can see her wounds. They're not nearly as bad as my finger that she just impaled, so I don't see why she has any right to complain. They don't look like anything. I feel like I should point that out, but I'd rather let her finish.

She obliges my silent request. "He walked me off the streets, treating me like a loving father should, and held my hand gently as he guided me behind the residential areas. We took the back road back to our house, and it was completely quiet. We stopped at the backdoor of our house, where he suddenly struck me. He struck me again, and again, and again. He beat me, all the while screaming at me, 'Henrietta, you're such a failure!' 'Now we're going to have to waste more money on the fucking hospital!' 'You're a cunt, woman – you're completely useless – get inside and clean yourself up this instant!'

"What else could I do? I ran inside and into my room. I'd have locked the door to it, had there even been a lock. I get absolutely no privacy. I am never treated with any respect. Anyway, so, I cleaned myself up as best as I could. I got changed—"

She just lost my attention for a few moments there. Eventually, I tune back in, though. The gothic girl doesn't even notice any disturbance.

"My mother only nodded in agreement with my father, but I knew that he never told her what he had just done. I tried to distract myself by looking outside, where the sun was just starting to rise, but it didn't do any good. All I could think about was, 'If it wasn't for him, I'd be dead by now. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have to deal with this.' Thanks a lot, by the way.

"'Something needs to be done,' my father started up again, 'about your behaviour. You're so depressed all of the time.'

"'Yes, Henrietta,' cooed my mother, 'Why don't you try wearing some other colours for a little while, and make some friends, too? Why, I just ran into Mrs. Stevens the other day… she has a daughter about your age, Bebe. How would you like to get together with her?' Naturally, I gagged… I mean, Bebe? Of all people, _Bebe_?" I resented that. I like Bebe, she's cool. According to her, we had a relationship when we were eight-years-old, but I don't really know what she's talking about when she mentions that. "I got told off for an inappropriate and unnecessary comment, and was sent back up to my room. No breakfast. Which was fine by me, anyway; no way I could eat after that. I thought that I could easily just starve myself.

"But later on, my mom came back in. I didn't listen to her, but she blabbed some shit about opening up to her, why can't I understand, blah, blah, blah. A load of bull."

Now I've had enough. "No, what _you're_ saying is a load of bull," I interrupt, easily able to figure out what was going on. Maybe I'm simply jumping to conclusions, but it's not too hard to tell with people like her. "When people are trying to help you, you should let them fucking help you. It's not a tough concept." Guidance counsellor. I did talk a little bit, although it didn't end up doing much good. "Your dad never beat you, you never went running through the streets, maybe he screamed at you but that was it at the most. Your arms are bloody because you tried to hurt yourself again. You mentioned that subtly. That you kept on thinking, 'I could have been dead now, if it wasn't for him,' so you tried to kill yourself again."

"But—"

"But what?"

She says nothing, only stares blankly at me. I feel the need to continue my righteous fury. "And further more, who the hell are you to be talking about pain, when you cause others to feel it? You just fucking impaled my finger earlier."

"You didn't say anything about it."

I stop and stare at the knife she's holding, then at my injured finger again. It's cold. It stings. But it just doesn't hurt.

"Doesn't matter, it's still hypocrisy—"

"You never said anything."

We stare at each other for a bit. Then she pipes up with a different question that baffles me, "You like pain, don't you? You also want to die, don't you?"

I stare blankly at her. _What the hell is wrong with this girl?_

She presses the knife tip gently up against my chest, just over the spot where my heart is located. "You do, right? Come on. We can go together."

I take a step backwards. "No," I say. "I don't think like you do." Hell, maybe I do. Who knows. We're probably both crazy. Maybe I'm just a kind of rational crazy.

It's times like these I wish that I could read people's minds. Wouldn't things be so much simpler if you were a mind reader? You'd never have to ask people to explain, you'd never have to ask for their opinions, you'd just know. For example, right now, if I could read minds, I'd read Henrietta's and figure out how it got into her head that she thinks that I want to die. Maybe it has a bit to do with the fact that I didn't react much to getting sliced through – something most people would scream to – but on the flip side, maybe getting my arm slashed instead, in such a deep, long wound, was enough. Or maybe I'm just stunned. Or maybe my mind is on too many things.

What happened to not thinking so much? I know that I was doing better that way.

"Yes, you do," she persists.

"And why do you think that is?" I finally come out and ask her directly.

Without hesitation, and in complete seriousness, she says, "Because I can see it in your eyes. I know that you want to be with me."

She… not in death, I don't! I try to hastily cover it up. "Are you aware of how retarded that sounds?"

"It doesn't sound retarded, and I know it's true. Come on, even if I am depressive and suicidal, I'm still a girl. Girls can figure out people easily. You've been displaying your emotions wide open for me. Probably for a lot of others, too."

…

But… if what she says is true… then… Oh, well, that's not too good. That's not good at all. How many people know about the threats and the warnings, then? _How many?_

But then, why am I so relaxed? My mind is tense but my body is relaxed. This makes no fucking sense. I wish I had someone here I could relate to. Stan. Stan's usually got good common sense. He's the most emotional out of the four of us, sure, but he's still my best friend. I kind of wish he was here right now. He could help. Like the way he did back on Tuesday… when I was panicked and running through the hallways, and he stopped me and calmed me down… and… I really felt a connection there. I really knew that he was my best friend then.

I don't know how I got onto this, but… I feel like he's the only person I can trust right now… First thing I'm going to do, when I get out of this – _if_ I get out of this, as Henrietta is pretty sure of herself – is talk to him about Cartman. I just want a break and time to relax.

Henrietta won't let me, though. I feel the knife's handle being thrust into my open palms, and instinctively, I close my hands around it. "Fine," I hear her say, but it's as if she isn't even here right now, and she's from some other dimension, "If you aren't going to join me… at least let me go through with it."

"I can't do that," I reply. "The guilt I'd feel… it would be so… why do you have to do this?"

"Because."

She then quickly leans into me, forcefully, almost, and lightly kisses me. On the lips. I don't feel a thing, though. No "magic," no "connection," nothing. The only thing I feel is blood spatter.

After a few moments, of which I used for processing, I look down in horror. She leaned right into me when I still had the knife out, its tip level and pointed towards her. She forced herself right into it. I think it's in her heart. She must be dead.

Her last word was "because."

I let go of the knife instantly, and collapse to my knees, just when she falls back. I look down on my jacket. There's blood spatters on it, but they aren't too big. I look over at what is now a corpse. It's very dead. For some reason, this observation causes me to laugh to myself.

Yup, I've snapped.

I cock my head and gaze at the blood rapidly pouring out of her body. I gaze at the knife, plunged fairly deep into her. That's one hell of a knife. I look back at my own finger, and wince. Then I look back at her, and do nothing, only look up to the sky within a few seconds. I've been ignoring the hail this whole time. One piece pings off of the knife's blade – the very small bit still outside of her body.

Now I'm scared for myself. Although I didn't directly kill her, fact is, I'm still partially responsible for her death. And it… it…

_It felt good._

Is this… what? Did I just figure out the way a murderer ticks? Because… that… it… I think it's something I'd… I'd like to do again. Her life… it was no real loss. She wanted to die, anyway, so there's bound to be millions of others who also wish the same. The guilt that I predicted I'd feel hasn't come along.

If I was in my right mind, I'd probably cry out in horror. I'd scream and sob and bury myself in the snow, lie by her side until morning, that kind of shit. But, you know, now that I think about it, weeping over someone gone is retarded. It doesn't bring them back. There's no way that she can be brought back.

I'll simply forget her. She doesn't need to live on in memories, either. There's just one thing left I want to see.

Still on my knees, I crawl a bit closer, and lean my head directly over the spot where the knife is, gazing at it in wonder. It looks so harmless. There's blood everywhere and it just looks so harmless. Like nothing big happened here. Probably because nothing big _did _happen. One life ended. No big deal.

I grab the knife's handle and start to pull it out. I think… I think I want to keep this thing, now. I have to jiggle it around a bit, though. It's stuck. But when I finally manage to get it out… there's… this parasite coming up with it. After a few moments of clueless-ness, I realize it's a piece of her now broken heart. I must have severed it from the rest while attempting to remove the weapon.

Now, if I was truly heartless, I would do what just occurred to me. Dissect her. Hey, it's a fresh corpse, is it not? Why not do it when I have the chance? Why let it go to waste? But I decide not to; that there should be a limit on things.

If I was heartfelt, I'd have had my heart broken. However, unlike Henrietta, mine would have only been broken in a figurative sense. Hers was broken in a literal one. I feel the need to commemorate this event, somehow.

In a purely random action, I remove my hat. I take my inured finger, still a bit warm with blood, and streak it just where one of the ear flaps starts, leaving an ugly brownish reddish stain on it. I poke one of my other fingers into one of the pools of blood made by Henrietta, and leave another streak right below the first one.

That should do. I fit my hat back on, pick off the bit of gore that's on the knife, stand up, and toss it over my shoulder. If I could find the heart too, I'd whistle. It hasn't been that bad of an evening. If there are any wolves here, they can come and get her. Free meal.

Boy, it sure gets dark here fast in the winter time. I make my way up the hill, to the place where I was originally slashed. There're a few trees up here. I peek around behind them and confront one of the things that has been bugging me for nearly the past week.

It's that first dead body. I kick it, it rolls over, and I can see another one, just beneath it. Suddenly I feel weak again, and my hand clenches around the knife. The cockiness I was feeling before is gone. This death—_these_ death_s_ seem so much more real than Henrietta's. It's all well and good when you're on the winning end, but when you lose, in a thing like this, you feel scared. When it involves your own life, you feel terrified. Maybe I know who these bodies once belonged to, maybe I don't, but I do know one thing for certain.

And it's that, once again, I can't see.

I stumble back and fall, landing in the snow. I'm still holding onto the knife. I wouldn't let go of it right now for the life of me. When I'm here, though, I feel like my life is in complete danger. That I'm doomed. That there's a real, experienced murderer out there, somewhere, and he doesn't care who he kills, just as long as he kills. It's a long way from the accidental slaying that I participated in.

It's funny that only when I'm blind, I can see how selfish I am. But most people are selfish, aren't they? Right? We all want what's best for ourselves… sometimes others… but part of the deal of survival is to look after ourselves, to make sure that we live on…

How literal and figurative everything really is. A soul is figurative. A body is literal. A mind is probably somewhere in between. Figurative doesn't really exist; literal does, and in between is in a grey area of its own. My body is real, I have no soul, and I don't even know what's going on with my mind.

Why is death so complicated? Why can't it just be a simple passing? That's all it was meant to be. Circle of life. Things die so new things can grow. But things usually die after they've fulfilled some kind of purpose, don't they? To provide another with food, insight, or further worsen someone else's problem.

Thanks a lot, Henrietta. (Speaking of – girls are so overly emotional. Maybe Cartman is on to something. Maybe, if I'm able to patch something up with him, and build a bridge, things could work out? I mean, it's not like I'm certain of any of my thought processes right now to befin with. Maybe I could try being a fag, you know, for fun.) You think you had it bad? You took the easy way out, but I want to fight this through. I know I'm fighting a losing battle. I know that I'm stuck in the hail, sitting back in the snow, blinded and with only an extremely bloodied knife in my hands. This much, I know.

Then again, maybe I don't know.

I just want my best friend right now. That's all I want, that's all I ask for. Just… somebody I can feel safe with.

I wish Stan would come.


	8. No Control

_Okay, I've got some bad news for you all. You see, from **April 16th**-**May 4th**, I will be in **Israel**. It is for a **class trip** that I am being **blatantly forced** to **go**__on. Therefore, this will be the **last** update for quite a **while** because I will not have much **time** for **writing** (or **computer** in **general**) during **Israel**. In **addition** to **that**, I will want **quite** a bit of **time** for **myself** when I **get back** in order to **catch up **on **things** that I may have **missed** due to this **trip**. That, and, afterwards, it **does** take me quite some **time** to **write** a **new chapter**, as well._

_That's the bad news. That and I'm seriously **abusing** the **bold** button. My **apologies**._

_Okay, okay, I'm done. But yes, this is going to be the last chapter from me for a while. Just so you know that I haven't died or anything (then again, it is Israel, so that might not be the case. Heehee). Besides, I'm absolutely loving these new episodes, so I'm having big fangirlings for those, too! They're great. That and one of my newer obsessions, House. It's the only drama-ish show that I'll even touch. God, it rocks. Watch it. Watch iiiit. _

_So yes. Enjoy. And remember that I said that there would be both het and slash pairings in this, so don't worry about that._

* * *

Love is such an irrational thing. It knows no bounds, and for that, it's pathetic. We have rules for a reason. They're guidelines to live by so we can all live together with some level of humanity.

If there's one thing I'm aware of, it's the time. Two hours ago, I broke one of the biggest guidelines we have. And I don't feel cold. I should feel cold, from both the weather and my previous actions, but I don't. I don't think that I even feel scared now.

Although I do crave human contact, and what better human than the guy I have the best kind of connection with? It's just this thing: humans are social creatures, and all. Anybody who says "I don't care what people think about me" is lying. Deep down, somewhere, they've gotta care.

And us being social creatures probably has quite a bit to do with the creation and formation of love. I mean, it's being accepted by some special someone, no matter who they be. And so falls into the no bounds category. Scientifically, males should only feel some kind of attraction to females, and females to males, but never one to the same, although it does occur in nature. It breaks the rule right there, because the point of it is so that we can reproduce and allow our species to live on.

I feel like I'm breaking a lot of rules. First a murder. And now… I can't be in my right mind. Maybe I'm just exaggerating and making things seem better than they are, but as far as I know, Cartman could be attractive in some odd kind of way. I mean… I… I'm really not sure about this whole thing. I mean I still think Henrietta was pretty, but that was just a lust, the correct kind of love that there's supposed to be. Not with all of this emotional crap. Things weren't supposed to turn out that way, where we have to feel so closely. It gives a grey area and then people get all uppity about that, because they can't agree on the particular shade of grey.

Maybe I'm just thinking about him right now because I've been alone for a while now, and completely blinded. If I already am insane – which I must be – then isolation sure as hell hasn't made it any better.

Or maybe I'm just feeling the need to be accepted. By someone. Anyone. And Cartman is the one who shows the most of that. It's a special kind of accepting, I guess. The only problem with it is that there's no emotional thing behind it, and since we're both guys, there's no practicality behind it, either. Hell, the emotional thing is a bit opposite of what the usual couple is supposed to be. We hate each other's guts.

Maybe I just feel the need for conflict instead? I've never understood the desire for love-hate relationships, though. What, am I masochistic, or something? Or maybe I just want some kind of thrill for adventure. I mean, maybe, if I could get through to him, away from the public's eyes, we could have something. And away from the nonexistent extra eyes of the private, things could go on as normal. I mean… I don't really know.

I guess I just want some kind of company other than two corpses. I mean, something animated isn't that much to ask for, is it?

I'm still clutching that knife. I don't know why I won't just let it go already. Probably because it's a pretty good idea to have a weapon with you at a site of previous murder when you can't get out of there.

Once again, I wish Stan would come. Well, anybody, really – even the murderer – but I'd honestly prefer Stan. He's the easiest one to talk to. How often does such a close friendship come? He's been able to put up with me for so long, especially after this past week, even with his own little emotional instabilities.

I wonder what other emotional instabilities he has. Or Cartman. Or maybe even Kenny. I've never really thought about my friends that way before. Does that make me a good person, or a bad one? I mean, Cartman is Whore-for-a-Mom. That can't be easy. If some bits of our personality are passed down genetically, and then there's the environment, too… both nature and nurture, and he's gotten a crappy deal for both of them. Christ, he doesn't even know who his _real _Mom is. That's gotta be harsh.

Kenny's the kind of guy who seems to be pretty good at hiding his distress, if he even has any. I'm that unsure of it. A poor and slightly dysfunctional family can't be the greatest, can it? Or maybe he's just able to easily shrug it off… Wow, I barely know Kenny at all, now that I think about it. I'm terrible.

… The sad thing is that the only stuff I can think of that may cause Cartman and Kenny trouble is stuff that I've known since we were eight years old. This makes me a horrendous friend, doesn't it? Christ… I know enough about Stan, but is it only because he's my best friend? I get such little interaction. I'm pathetic.

Stan isn't so great with dealing with things. Sometimes he goes a bit over the top, no matter what the situation. He's never really been the strongest physically among us. Asthma and a weak stomach don't do a guy much good, do they? Everybody likes to draw back on how he was an awesome quarterback way back when, but things haven't improved much since then, and people like to live in the past too much. Frankly, I don't think he's cut out to be some kind of jock. I don't know what he's cut out to be at all. He can't really do anything requiring a lot of endurance, because then he'll fall into an asthma attack (although otherwise he seems to be pretty strong; it takes a lot of running to get him to collapse), and he refuses to goal tend.

About three years ago, near the end of sixth grade, when we were all twelve, best proves my point. It was around the May-June period, where things were really starting to warm up, and mud, slush, and ice breaking became more hazardous and just plain more common in general. We had a nice misadventure one Saturday that resulted in Kenny's right arm getting snapped off (he eventually passed out from blood loss, and died – we completely forgot about him. He was buried in a mini mud-and-slush-slide, could you blame us?) and Stan breaking his ankle. Well, Stan just had to insist on retaining his pride, and refused crutches afterwards. He took the rest of the weekend off, and when he came back to school on Monday, he would hop around, from class to class.

It's not like you have a lot of things to carry around with you in sixth grade, anyway.

You could easily hear him. He had a cast, and whenever he made a wrong move, half of the time he would fall on it. You would know when that occurred if you saw him anywhere and he was muttering very obscene things under his breath. But hey, that's how he decided to get around. Everybody said that he was freakin' mental, but he just ignored them and continued along on his way, satisfied by the simple fact that he didn't require assistance from any synthetic objects.

Despite protests from everybody – including teachers, remarking on how it would distract him from his studies (as if Stan, let alone any of us, could be bothered to care about those things so close to the end of the year), his system worked well enough, until we had gym class.

Everybody gets those gym teachers they absolutely despise. Those big, ugly, manly brutes that don't care how old you are, if you can't do it at the highest level, you fail. The kind of guy who was obviously incapable of passing high school, yet was top in all of the athletics there; or, well, however long they let you stay on the team due to the bad grades. We just happened to get ours in sixth grade. Hell, he was just barely smarter than most of us, from what I can remember, and I was way ahead of him in the intellectual department. Something that made me his least favourite student. (The looks on my parents' faces, when I brought home my final report card with that one glaring F on it were hysterical, though. The fight resulting from it that bumped it up to a B was even funnier.)

Classes weren't really split up yet, but he insisted on segregated gym classes, at the least, for a few reasons. One, he refused to teach a bunch of sissy pussy girly girls, which honestly would have been funny to see, considering that if there was any time for any girl to be butch, it was Bebe in sixth grade. She could whip half of us. Anyway, two, he insisted that at our age, boys would be much too aggressive for girls to handle. That was the way he saw it fit. You argued with him, you got beaten, plain and simple. It sucked.

So anyway, Stan hobbled into gym class, and told Coach (what we were forced to call him) of his predicament. Coach simply said, "Well, you ain't in a wheelchair, you can play." Stan asked him what if he had crutches. Coach said that even crutches wouldn't have done him any good, but at least he was taking it like a man, because crutches are for pussies. We happened to be playing soccer at this time, and Pip, by now, had learned to keep his mouth shut over the "proper" name of the game. Coach took the most compassion he ever would for Stan (he hated him, too, because of his asthma – "nothing but a weak pussy excuse"), and stuck him in net.

Needless to say, my best friend ended up snapping his ankle even more, and had to stay in the hospital overnight that time. He was furious. He swore that if he had to be goalie for any kind of game one more time, he would crack open the head of the person who made him.

… This is sad. I can bring up a whole story about my best friend from only complete memory, yet I can't recall anything from my other two friends. I'm a horrible person. I'm an even worse friend. Why do we have to grow older and separate? I know it's partially due to fucking hormones. I can only imagine how much worse it must be on girls.

I run my fingers along the blade of the knife. It's crusted up with blood. It's probably nauseating, and to the casual observer, I just killed two random people.

Hm. Maybe I should hope that nobody comes around, then. I mean… I could just sit out here and stay out here. Maybe sometime I'll get the courage to get up.

Fuck, I'm such a wimp. I mean, seriously. Look at all that's happened to me: and there's way worse that have happened to people in only the span of a few hours. At least I still have my physical health, for the most part, friends, and family. There're tons of others out there who would like those things.

Then again I wouldn't mind trading all of those in for a stable mind. I don't know. It's just that, well, I seem to just think about all of these things more… and… well, it just seems more beneficial to me. Yes, human contact is nice, but what about being able to be your own person? You need a stable mind for that. A crazy one isn't you. I know that it isn't me. I'm supposed to be intellectual. I _am_ intellectual. I should be thinking in a steady flow, not thinking about the stupidest things at the stupidest places. Only somebody like me right now could be thinking about love with two dead people sitting right next to him. How does that even connect? I mean, actually? It makes no sense!

I make no sense!

_Life_ makes no sense!

I hear footsteps crunching softly in the snow. I vaguely see that the hail has stopped. It's calm and peaceful out, I guess. I wonder what time of day it is? Did I fall asleep at any point?

"Kyle?"

"Stan?" I foolishly call out. I shouldn't get my hopes up too high. I don't deserve to get any of my wishes fulfilled. _I'm a murderer._ If there wasn't a warning hanging over my head from this place, I would think that I had killed three people, not only one.

"… No… Kyle… Ike."

"Ike?"

It sounds like him.

"Kyle… what… what is all of this…? Why is it so bloody…? You… your hands… that… where'd you get that knife? Kyle, _what are you doing out here_?"

You know what? I feel like dying now. Call me self-centered, but I'd rather live in a world alone with my own mind than filled with people who have concern over me when I can't even think for myself properly. "Ike, go away."

I hear soft steps, no doubt due to the fact that he's much smaller, coming closer towards me. I think his hands are held up. "No," he meekly protests, "Mom'll kill me if I come home without you."

"What time is it?"

"The sun is starting to rise. Kyle, please, come on. Just drop that knife—"

Bitterly, I bite back, "Never."

"What?"

"I said I'm not letting go of this thing."

"Look, could you please just get up, then?" he tries to reason. I shake my head no. "Why not?" he asks, and I can hear the agitation growing in his voice.

Curtly, I answer, "I'm blind." If I could see right now, I'm sure that the expression on his face would make me burst out laughing. It would be rich.

"You—you're—but--! If Mom finds that out… oh, oh god, oh god, if she knows—and then—oh, christ, Kyle! What if she—chocolate! What if she bans that? I mean she could say it's because of that stuff that I'm so unruly, that I'm going to be a failure, that it—but—I've always loved that shit, and, and, and--!"

The bloodied knife's tip is just barely touching my little brother's nose. I can see it clearly now. "Ike," I state, calmly and clearly as ever, "kindly do shut the fuck up, or your head will be cut in half." His mouth snaps shut instantly. "Thanks," I finish, and turn around to kick at a corpse. Out of my peripheral vision, I can see him nervously wanting to question me as to what I'm doing, but he's still terrified.

Eh, had I been on the other end, I probably would have been, too. Actually, I already was. But hey, you know, I would have done it. I think he caught how serious I was being there. But the whole mind frame… It's beautiful. Really, just, the thrill of being in control. Is it considered playing god if you take others' lives into your own hands and play about with them? I like that feeling.

Casually, I turn around and cock my head, studying him. He's fidgeting and looks like he wants to get the hell out of there, but is way too scared to make a move. Quickly growing bored, I ask him, "Well, what is it?"

"Kyle… can we go home now?"

I walk up over to him, still grasping the handle. "Sure, Ike. Sure, we can go home now."

About half way there, he glances up at me nervously. "Kyle… would you have—"

"Yes," I respond without any hesitation whatsoever.

"Why?"

I stop walking.

"I'm your brother."

I stare blankly at him.

"I'm just a kid."

"I… I don't care. You were being annoying. I got you to stop. That's what I wanted."

"But, Kyle," he says, backing away from me, "Wouldn't that have been a bit rash?"

He's right. "Yeah, but that's what you've got to do sometimes," I shrug. He looks at me as if I'm crazy. I probably am. I deserve that look, and yet, at the same time, I really, really don't.

"… Please… would you just… drop… leave the knife where it is? Please?" he pleads with me. I don't know what it is about him, but something at it just makes me kind of snap. I'm getting pretty moody, the fuck? I drop the weapon and fall down with it, tears welling up in my eyes. My little brother runs up to me. "Kyle? Are you okay?"

I glance up at him. "No," I quietly say, all of my actions just dawning on me for real now. "Ike, I'm not okay."

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately. I think he's a bit impatient.

"I… I'm sick. I'm really, really sick, Ike—"

He rambles off on his own. God, I know that he's only nine and all, but he gets pretty hyperactive, and his imagination knows no limits when it comes to punishments and rules. "Crap, well, this is what you get for staying out so long in the cold, huh? Christ Kyle, you didn't even come home last night! It's Saturday morning and you've been outside this whole time! Do you know how cold it's been? It's been in the negatives! _In the negatives, Kyle!_ Negative DOUBLE DIGITS!"

"You're exaggerating."

"No, I'm not!" he continues panicking. "Oh, man, Mom's gonna kill me for this! Letting you stay out so long! Why did you do that? You could, you could have frostbite, or hypothermia, or something! What the hell would you be doing… oh, nevermind…" His craziness subsides for some reason I'm not sure of, but I'll still try to calm him down a bit. He just made me wake up, for lack of better words.

I slowly stand myself up, and make him rise along with me. I place my hands on his small shoulders. "Ike… Ike, shh, it's okay. Mom wouldn't punish you for something that I did. You're at no fault in this, trust me, okay? And I'm feeling fine. It's that… Well, I'm just feeling sick mentally, okay? I'm not in my right mind. That's all that's wrong. I feel fine otherwise, okay?"

He blinks and looks up at me, before piping up with, "So… if we tell Mom and Dad, you can get help, right?"

Screw this. I'm going to go against what, under normal circumstances, I probably would have said. "No. I don't want to tell Mom and Dad."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm sick of doing nothing but obeying them all of the time. I still want a bit of my own life to myself, you know? Don't tell them anything," I command.

He pauses. A bit further on down the road, he says, "Well, what if you just tell Dad? If you don't tell Mom, there won't be much to worry about, right? Dad doesn't get as crazy as Mom does. You could tell him!"

"She'd find out eventually."

"Could you try going to a shrink, then? Kyle, just how are you sick, exactly? Were you… trying to kill yourself? What's it called? One of my friends, he, uh, he said that when he was in kindergarten, and for a bit afterwards, until all of his friends left him because they were older than him, he said that they would all just hang out back and wear black and smoke and stuff, he said that there used to be talks about making themselves bleed, like… cutting? Yeah, I think that's what he called it. Were you cutting yourself, Kyle?"

…

I smack him.

"_No_, I'm not! Goddamnit, why the hell does everybody think that? Didn't you see those dead bodies, Ike?"

He stops walking. I continue along ahead, but I still hear his voice coming from behind. "No… Did you… Kyle, did you actually _kill_ people?"

How could he not notice? I guess that… well, sometimes the mind just manipulates things that you want so see. Or, in this case, don't want to. Huh.

Still, I continue walking. I'm not carrying this conversation any further. He runs in order to catch up with me, and, with a bit of trouble, keeps pace with me. I increase it, and he does the same for his. "Kyle, I'm telling Mom."

I walk faster. He can't keep up. "I'm doing it!" he cries out again, as if I didn't understand him the first time. I whirl around on him, and he nearly walks straight into me.

"You do and I'll kill you myself, okay, Ike?" Why am I talking like this? I'm not some big shot killer. Henrietta's death wasn't even my fault. My ego needs some deflating.

We say nothing more and enter the house. Neither Mom nor Dad is awake, so we're good. The two of us silently creep up and slip into bed.

* * *

My eyes flutter open, and the first thing that they see is the clock sitting off to the side. _1:02 p.m._, it reads. That's a long enough sleep, then. I wonder if I Ike is up yet.

I slowly sit up and wander down to the kitchen, not bothering to change into normal clothes or do anything else. I'm hungry. Mom is there.

"Kyle, where were you last night?"

Quick thinking, quick thinking, quick thinking. "I was… um… I was out with Kenny. Sorry about that, Mom," I say, muttering the last part. Why did I say Kenny? Probably because he's from 'the hood,' I guess.

"Bubbaleh, I don't want you staying out that late again, okay? Come, get something to eat." That's all she says before returning to her own normal business. I oblige. And think.

Maybe I'll put Ike's mind at rest and just go tell somebody about it. Not a professional, though. Rather, someone I can trust and easily consult, and someone who wouldn't mind bearing my problems. Stan, to put it in short. Except I'm not sure if this is the best thing to say to him. Is that fair to him? He's a fairly emotional guy already; this can't help him in any way.

Then again, we're best friends, and he'll demand that I tell him what's wrong. I finish eating whatever it was that I had gotten to begin with – oh, cereal – and head upstairs to make myself a bit more presentable.

Then again, maybe it would work. He was able to calm me down from the panic I had been in before. There's no logical reason as to why he shouldn't be able to do that again. He knows me, he'll help me. We're best friends. Best friends help each other out. It's as simple as that, right?

Yeah, I think that I'll call him. Yeah. I meander back down the stairs and stare at the phone, sitting on a table in the living room, for a bit.

No. It's selfish to press my problems upon others.

Then again, if they ask what's wrong…

I grasp the handle of it: it's got a cord. People still use cord phones? Wow. Just as I'm about to pick it up and start dialling, it rings. I pick it up, not really recognizing the sound myself, anyway, and press it to my ear.

"Hello?" I ask, ignoring my mom's shouts from the kitchen to always answer it as, "Broflovski residence, Kyle Broflovski speaking," unless I know who is calling, which I don't. Seriously, though. Nobody answers phones like that anymore.

"Hi, Kyle? This is Red—Bertha. Um, I was just thinking… We have that English project together, you know, the one where we have to write a novella? Well, um, I think we should get a head start on it, so we're not scrambling at the last minute and producing something only worth a C, or whatever… so… do you want to come over? We could work on it. My parents are going to be out for the rest of the day, so we could have no interruptions."

Right! School exists. I had forgotten about that. "Yeah, sure, Red. I'll be over in a few, okay?"

"'kay," she answers, and hangs up. I follow her motion. She sounded pleased.

"Mom!" I call out, and her head peaks from out of the kitchen. "I'm going out, alright?"

She frowns. "Could you be back before supper this time, please, bubbie?"

"It's for school."

"Oh, well, alright then." Wow, she really does trust me. I wonder where Ike is. "Stay out as long as you need to. Get lots of work done!"

I exit and close the door, and start heading over to Red's. So I can stay out as long as I want, but just as long as I'm working on school? How obsessed is she? Teenagers have social lives too. Christ. How long has it been since she was one? Can't she keep up with times or anything? I'm not some nerdy little Jewish kid in, like, Yeshiva, or something. That thought alone makes me shudder.

But still.

Bitchcunt.

* * *

Red cheerily opens the door for me. "Hey, Kyle!" she says, grinning. "Come in. I've got some stuff lined up in here."

I enter and look at what she's accomplished. Various forms of snacks are lined up, along with a couple of papers and pencils. She really knows how to get to work. And houses in South Park are so identical, it's almost painful. It's all on a coffee table, sitting in front of a couch, with a TV right there, too. Wow. That's got to be the layout for every single house in this town. Glancing down at her feet, I see that her shoes are off, so I oblige by what I assume are house rules, and take mine off, too. That and my coat. There isn't much need for that in here; there's heating. We both walk over to the work area and sit down.

"So," she starts off, staring at me, "We should start from the beginning. What's the plot going to be?"

"What's the genre going to be?" I counter. Please, nothing dark and dramatic. I've had enough of that. Really, as far as I'm concerned, I feel that after a nice, long sleep, I've been acting relatively normal enough. A lot more normal. As long as nothing sets me over the edge, I could keep this up, forget a few of those events, and all will be well again! Yay! Rest does wonders to the human mind.

She flutters her eyelashes at me. "Weeeeelllll, I was thinking… how about a romance?"

… Is she flirting with me?

Wow, that was fast. One girl dies, a few hours later, one girl wants me. Damn. She probably didn't want me to come over for only school purposes, then. Well. I'll play with her.

"Nah," I wave my hand off. "Romances are too common and way too similar. We should do something else."

She pouts. "Well, what do you propose?" she demands, hands on her hips. I shrug. "Not some stupid boy thing, alright? Let's do something different from _that_."

"Well, you're just proposing some stereotypical girly thing," I rebut.

"Fine," Red huffs. "We can do something a bit different, then."

"Okay," I say, writing _ROMANCE_ down on one of the papers. "It can be a story between two different creatures… Frogs or slugs?"

"_What?_"

"I said, frogs or slugs?" Girls can be so funny at times. She's got this hysterical look of disgust on her face.

"That isn't romance!" Red shrieks out, grabbing a box of Cheesy Poofs and beating me with it. I have a hard time keeping my laughter under control.

"You said something different!" I protest, flailing from under the snack.

The small redheaded girl frowns. "… Fine," she concedes, "Frogs are better." She shoots me this hateful look, but then launches into another ramble, this time on the plot. "So, for this, it could be… uh… Well, I was thinking that the two could originally have never really seen each other in their… uh… _tadpole_ times, and they're complete strangers to each other. When they start growing up, they finally meet each other, and interact, and… fall in love." She glances over at me again, then quickly back to the papers in front.

I shrug. "Eh, a bit boring, though. Could they hate each other at first, or something?" This is going to pain me to say it, but, you know, screw that. "Hold harmful thoughts to each other? Try to kill each other?"

My suggestion is met with a glare. "You just want gore, don't you?"

I give her a small smile. "Yes and no."

"It's not very romantic."

"So?"

"… Fine. So they do that, but it's just when… after not too long, they notice similarities in each other… they leave each other be… and then they just meet each other again, and they see it in each other's eyes—"

"That's gay."

"Shut up. It's romantic."

"It's gay."

"It'll still be with a boy and a girl frog, dipshit!"

"Still gay."

She glares at me. "Fine, fine! So we'll fix that up a bit, but there're still jot notes we can put down." I watch her grab a pen, and write down a few points: _-don't know each other at first_; _-very little interaction_; _-different places for them_; _-later on they meet_; _-bit of an attraction present_; _-they notice each other for the first time, sparks fly_—

I'm reading what she's writing. Wow. Everything that she has said has been some kind of relation to our relationship when we were a bit younger. We never really interacted with each other, and when we did, it was with a group reaction… Like that time we were learning about sex, or when Cartman convinced all of us that the girls could see into the future. And then she's writing what I'm sure she hopes will happen. Us getting together. "Okay, now you're _definitely_ alluding to me. Quit your flirting."

"Took you long enough," she stops, grins, and flies at me.

… I was thinking about Cartman earlier, wasn't I? I don't know how I was. Apparently I've got a girl unafraid to show her own affections with me right here. I think I'm pretty covered, then: Red is pretty, she's sweet, and she's a nice girl, albeit a bit shy at times and eccentric at others. She's petite, to be French, and not nearly as freakishly pale as Henrietta was. Her hair is a deep, deep red, and it's at about shoulder length, perfectly straight. And it's soft. She's soft in general. I'll deal. I've never thought about her in that way before, but, well, you know, why not? Might as well. When god gives you lemons!

And not craziness. Maybe that was just a stage for me.

And thus, we proceed with some good ol' fashioned making out. She does a good job of ignoring the still-present blood stains on my hands.


	9. Multiplicities

_Hey guys! Well, I dunno about you, but I had a nice break, for one. Oh, and don't think for a second that that's referring to Israel. Israel sucked ass. I really, really hate that country. Seriously. And it's not like it did any good for my writing. All that trip really did for my creativity was sit down on my muse, and since I am hereby referring to Israel as a fatty, it nearly crushed it to death. The vet bills are so freakin' expensive, man. Musey is only just recovering now, too._

_In all seriousness, though, I **am** sorry for the lateness of this update. I got knocked out of my writing groove big time and only just found my way back in this weekend. I think that I'll be pretty good now, though. I mean, I'm back, I'm writing, and my interest in this fic has peaked again. _

_So, season 10.0 was awesome, wasn't it? 10.5 on October 4th, who else is excited? That's one reason to look forward to the new school year, the other being the third season of House. Okay, seriously. That season finale was FREAKY AS FUCK. Not to mention graphic content, uh, YEAH. They weren't dicking around that time. But anyway, yeah, until then, I'll get through the last bit of school I've got left and enjoy my summer. Now enough of my fangirlings, read, you!_

_Reviews would be incredibly nice and appreciated. Not necessary, but, well… I'd like them._

* * *

"Kyle? Kyle! Kyle, wake up!"

I register a minor shaking movement occurring to my body, but dismiss it.

"Seriously, Kyle, _now_!"

There's urgency in her voice, but who cares?

"I mean it!"

It's easier to just lie back here and think. Y'know, let the mind wander. Give it its exercise. Let it run around a little, throw a tennis ball around for it for a while, let it tire itself out with musings and romps through figurative tall green grass fields that wouldn't even exist in an area near here. Maybe even give it a cookie afterwards for a treat. People like cookies. I like cookies. My mind could easily like cookies.

I'm going to have to thank it later. Yeah, it's screwing me up. Yeah, if I were to go back into the past and look at myself now I'd think, "Dude, this isn't me." But yeah, it also makes things more interesting and more fun. People can get hurt in the process, but I'm okay with that. Life isn't all sunshine and roses, anyway. Roses aren't a good thing to have in a big area where you're running around and playing and getting exercise. They've got thorns. Those things are sharp little assfucks.

But really… who am I trying to impress, or save, or anything? I'm looking out for myself. Is that so wrong? So I'm not looking on the emotional side of people as much, but so what? There's no emotional without physical. It's broken down. The physical is what ties us to this world and keeps us alive. I'd rather stay alive than worry about every little thing and every little person that enters my life. They're not me. They can look out for themselves. And if they cross me, then they can continue to look out for themselves.

Although honestly, I'm not sure of my stance in that area anymore. I don't know if I ever was. I keep flipping back and forth between. I mean, it's easy to talk big, and it's easy to talk small, but when you're actually _there_… that's a whole different matter. That's where things happen. Talking doesn't accomplish much.

If I end up having to be as cold as I can be, then so be it. I'll match the ice around the town. There's only one person I can honestly think of that I can enjoy myself around, but, seeing as I haven't even been around him ever since I ended up… killing Henrietta, I don't even know anymore.

Still, it's moronic. People try to talk big all of the time and never follow through. I shouldn't honestly talk all that much about this myself, however, seeing as I've fallen into both categories, really. I've gone through with it, I've nearly gone through with it, and during the moment, I've been more than talk. Here I'm just talk.

"Seriously, Kyle, there isn't much time left! You've got to hurry!"

Talking is annoying.

"Listen to me!"

Nobody ever has to listen to you. You can be telling the most amazing thing ever, and nobody has to pay attention. You can't always grasp attention with words. They're not physical entities; they can't reach out, grab you, choke you, or smack you to get your attention—

… Ow! The fuck?

I slowly bring my hand up and gingerly touch my cheek, which is now searing with pain. I glance around a bit and finally bring myself to meet Red's eyes. She looks panicked and hurried. She's also shirtless.

Um, wow.

"Kyle!" she shrieks out, relieved. "Oh, thank god! Don't trip out on me like that again, alright? Please? Look, my parents are going to be home _any minute_ now. It's past midnight. We're lucky I happened to glance at the clock." She throws a pair of pants at me. "Here, get these the hell back on," she finishes, struggling to pull her T-shirt back on and over her head. Upon closer inspection, I realize that the pants are mine.

What the hell did we _do_? I… it's… If it's past midnight, that means it'd have to have been at least nine hours since we initially started, and… I don't remember any of it, but from the looks of it and what I can piece together… Whoa, dude. That must have been intense.

And then I came back to my senses and just… I didn't even acknowledge anything. Shit, am I confused right now. And I'm going to be in trouble when I get back home. "Be home by dinner" my ass. Urk. I wonder if she'll go back to that despite the whole school thing. (Whatever we ended up doing for most of that time doesn't seem very school-related, either.)

I pull the article of clothing back on just as both Red and I start to hear talking from the other side of the door, and the door knob jiggling and shaking a little. In a small moment of panic, I jump up and Red ends up pushing me on the other side of the couch, right in between it and the wall. Miraculously, I succeed in landing not only with minimal sound but with minimal pain, as well. The door fully creaks open, and parents step in.

I reach up to carefully inspect my head for any bumps or extreme pain there in general and come into contact not with a nice little green hat, but rather, with a not-so-nice toned-down Jew fro. I sneak a peak around the couch's edge and notice the absent article thrown across the room and lying near the back of her T.V. How it got there is _beyond_ me, but I've got to manage to get it back and sneak out without getting caught.

Based on how urgent Red was feeling, I'm pretty sure that whatever we did was something we weren't supposed to do.

"Well, I was waiting up for you…"

Okay, so she's talking to her parents. Good. I'll just sneak across the room and…

God, I feel like such a dork, crawling around in a house that isn't mine.

"Why's your hair so messed up, hun?" her mom questions.

"Oh, well, y'see… uh… er…"

Okay, Bertha can deal with this on her own. I can see her eyes meet up with my progress once or twice, and they're pleading, but I can't do much more than shake my head and scamper across the rest of the room. Her dad looks over his shoulder and questions what that was. Meanwhile, I'm safely hidden behind the TV, hat safely back on my head and covering any offending red mess that's now below it.

What I'm going to have to assume is my apparent new girlfriend gets her father's attention back. I'm not interested in their conversation anymore, though. Not that I ever really was. I sneak across and over to the door, and quickly jump up, open it, jump out, close it, and jump into the snow on their front yard and dash around to the other side of their house. I'll continue along the back way for a bit so that there's less a chance of me getting caught, I think.

Yeah, that'll work.

I'd just really, _really_ like to know what we did back there. Seriously. The last thing I can remember is Red pouncing on me and a lost thought about bloodied frogs, or something like that. Then I'm jolted back into awareness with my own pants getting thrust at me while I've got boobies only protected by a bra staring me in the face. Judging on Red's actions, I wasn't out of it the whole time. Come to think of it, she looked sweaty. Come to think of it, _I_ was sweaty before the parental threat posed itself.

Aw man, I hope it wasn't anything too extreme. I mean, we're only fourteen!

Still, better Red than Cartman, right?

I cut across the street and continue to make my way back home, only having weak little street lights, a sliver of a moon, and a bunch of useless stars to provide me with light. Huh, the last time I was out late at night, I killed someone. The time before that, I saved that same someone's life. And the time before _that_, _I _was almost killed.

I should stop coming out late at night. It keeps resulting in death, and I think I've just made up my mind on the subject once and for all: I don't want any part in it. If I just keep silent about what happened to me last week, I should be perfectly fine. I mean, a near death experience… That's easily avoidable, right? No need to cause an unnecessary commotion, right? No logical reason to encourage my mom to place more restrictions and limitations on me, right? Yeah. If I just avoid the whole death thing all together, I should be fine. Nobody will be threatened, nobody will find out, and Henrietta was being a depressive melodramatic bitch anyway.

Yeah, I think I'll be okay, as long as I manage to keep my head straight. Whatever Red and I did must've fixed me. I guess.

I cut another corner, dash across a snow field, and end up wishing that I was more athletic. You know what could be cool? Having super powers. I mean, I'm facing nothing but a high wall, and there's a window to my room _right there_. Now, if I could fly, or even just jump really high, or even walk through stuff, I'd be all set. But noooo. I've gotta go and risk getting myself completely caught and hurt.

It's a good thing that I've got pockets. I open one up and produce a nice little house key. I jam it into the slot, twist it, open the door, close it, and lock it from the inside again. Then, as quietly as I possibly can, make my way up the steps, and contemplate either going to bed or doing something else. My clock tells me that it's 3:00 a.m. Thanks, clock. You're a useful little fellow. I'm not really feeling tired, so I guess I might as well get started on my second English project. That essay about anger that I got assigned.

Pencil, paper, and writing long stuff out by hand sucks. It hurts and it's hard to go at a decent speed, but I'll have to make do. We need a hand written copy. That's pretty gay. What's also not helping is the fact that I got assigned to write some bigass thing about being pissy, and I'm not upset in the slightest.

My thoughts drift to Cartman.

No anger. Just a sudden awareness of my surroundings and a bit of a daze. I hear my heart.

Oh, man.

I try thinking of what happened last week, and all I get is a stronger feeling of chills, now with depression thrown in.

This… this isn't right. Normally, at any other time… _any _normal time… _ANY_ time at all… any thought about Cartman would get my blood boiling and my ready-to-punch-someone's-lights-out factor at dangerous levels, and yet here… nothing. I'm feeling submissive instead. I don't want to feel submissive. I just feel submissive.

But I don't like submission. I'm an aggressive person. Right? Yeah, I'm aggressive. Not submissive. I fight for my way and don't back down and I get violent. That means I'm aggressive. Oh, god. Before I was being unnecessarily aggressive, and now I'm just being a pussy.

Life sucks. I think I'll get some sleep now, please. Yeah.

* * *

Sundays are boring. Everyone else is attending church. Man, I don't even know why my peers, of all people, still do. I finally put my foot down not too long ago and announced that if I had to be forced to go to synagogue one more time, I'd bomb it. That ended up giving me a nice ticket to Groundedville, population Kyle, but hey, it worked. I haven't been forced to attend against my will since then.

So why does everyone else still go to church? Fuck, I want to talk to Stan. He's the only person I feel completely comfortable around now. I mean, I can reveal anything to him, and vice versa. Right?

Whatever. Food is more important right now. I'm being so hypocritical by focussing on petty little details than my annoying stomach.

I start to stumble down the stairs, when only just now it starts to dawn on me that I'm still wearing my clothes from the previous day, and that I should really, really go take a shower now. I mean, hell, I've still got Henrietta's blood on me. That'll be fixed soon enough.

Hot water flows down, grease is taken care of, business is done, and soap is winning the war in grinding all of my skin off. Seriously. _It's not coming off. _It's faded, yeah, but… _it's still there_.

So I do what any sensible person would do, and give up before the skin is gone. Hell, I already got my finger impaled. I think I'm done with pain for a whole now.

The rest of the day is pretty boring, but it's nice and relaxing, too. I feel way, way better after getting some sleep. I came downstairs to find my dad watching some kind of documentary special in the living room, so I went out, got a breakfast, and sat down to join him and just silently watch in awe of the magic picture box. Ike came down not too much later and joined us. When that was over, and Dad got up and left to do some such thing, Ike seemed hesitant of staying where he was. I guess that he figured that as long as we were at home nothing bad would happen to him, and he carefully got up, switched his Gamecube on, and came back to the couch with a controller. Being the new nice person that I am, and feeling bad about what happened before, I got up and collected the second person controller myself. Came back, sat down, gave him a weak little smile, and amends were made and a racing game was played until dinner.

The amount of slack I've been getting as of late is starting to make me feel nervous and uncomfortable, though. I was just defying some of the biggest rules out there, and now I need petty ones back again to set me straight? What's wrong with me?

… Well, as long as all stays well, I think I'll be fine.

Unfortunately, all does not stay well, as come later evening, my cell rings and Cartman's on the other end. I don't want to answer, but my idiocy and boredom gets the best of me, and soon enough, I'm saying, "Hello?"

"Hey, Jew fag. Just called to remind you that this is the one week anniversary since you slashed yourself: aren't you proud?"

I groan and turn myself out of the cross-legged position I had on my bed before, flopping down on my stomach instead. To be honest, I'm not in the mood for dealing with his crap right now. "Cartman, we've been over this—"

"Nope, you were still in denial."

I fling my head down into my mattress and mumble under my breath, "Oh, fuck me."

I guess I wasn't quiet enough, because I can hear obnoxious laughter coming from the other line. "Oh, you'd like me to, wouldn't you?"

"What? Hell no!" I cry out, sitting bolt upright once again in fear and shock. "_You're_ the one who's after me, remember?"

"Oh, and aren't you sure of yourself? It could easily be both ways, cutter."

"I didn't cut myself."

"Yeah, just as certain as you don't want me inside you."

"Cartman, that's just wrong."

"Perhaps, but you do know the truth in its statement."

"… You're teasing me, aren't you." It's more of a statement than a question.

There's a snort on the other end. "Look, I called to remind you of last week, not to get into this discussion." Oh, so I guess that we waded in too far deep. "Just remember what I said last week! Jew, go join your people in a gas chamber, will ya? Their ashes are calling for yours… Come on, Kyle, don't keep them waiting. You want to see your tortured past family, don'tcha? You guys can compare suffering storie—"

I cut him off, snapping the phone shut, and making incredible progress on my anger-themed essay.

* * *

Well, the weekend's over, it's back to school, and there's still one week to go until Christmas break. Nice. Nobody is going to be kept under control now, and no progress is going to be made in the learning department (not that anyone other than me would really care).

There're two pluses for school today. The first being that I finally get to see Stan and spill all of my confused and fucked up emotions onto him like he's done to me in the past (although I'm no longer as confused and fucked up since Cartman managed to piss me off last night). The second is that, according to Kenny at the bus stop, Cartman decided to skip today due to an overly "nauseous" feeling. I'd like to think that I caused it.

The bus is early today, arriving just as Stan, Kenny and I arrive at the stop. And just when I'm about to get my chance to talk to Stan for the first time since a whole weekend, he gets dragged away by Wendy. Almost willingly, too, it seems. Man, come on, I'm your best friend! Can't your girlfriend wait a little?

The two end up dragging each other to the very back, somehow, and engage in what seems like a serious conversation. From the casual observances I can make when Kenny isn't being a jackass, trying to get me to contribute in some way to a flaming bomb he wants to make here and now, both best friend and best friend's girlfriend look incredibly uncomfortable, but Stan even more so. I wonder what the hell is up with them until a paper airplane flies into my hat and Kenny continues to prod me, demanding suggestions on how to blow stuff up.

The worst thing _ever_ about arriving early for school is the fact that you've got so much spare time to kill before your first classes. For once, though, things seem to be working nicely for me, as this is the one morning I'd like some spare time to myself. I hop off the bus, and when Stan makes his way down, I drag him off and into the building, where we can finally catch up on each other.

"Dude, I haven't seen you all weekend!" I cry out. "I know what I've been up to and what my excuse is, now what's yours?"

He glances over at me. "I… uh… I didn't really do much… I just… I had some things to think about, stuff to look over, things to look up, y'know? It… uh…" His eyes rove around my features, finally resting on one of my hat's sides. "Dude, what's that?" he asks, pointing to those two blood stain streaks I made back on Friday night (or Saturday morning, whatever that was), averting my attention from his stuttering.

I attempt to look at what he's pointing to without removing my hat, and I fail in succeeding. "Uh… what do you mean, Stan?" I question, not feeling too perfect myself in this situation. I guess maybe letting it all loose could be a bad thing. It could provide the same results that spilling about what happened to me last week could… Yet I'm on the killing end this time. Huh.

"I mean… Kyle, there's these stains there. They're kind of a dark red. And streaked. What's that from?"

"Err… knife accident." Hey, it's not like I'm lying. Part of the streaks _did _come from my impaled finger.

"A knife accident." He raises his eyebrow in question, obviously in disbelief.

"… Yeah. Can I tell you more about it in detail elsewhere?"

"Sure," he says, and then we wander about the halls for the extra few minutes we have. I pry at him just what it was he had to look up, but he avoids specifics, only saying that he didn't leave his house all weekend. Not for one little thing.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Man, I barely caught any sleep. It's just so…" his voice trailed off and he massaged his temples a bit. "Nevermind. It's still confusing to me. Don't worry about it, though. It's nothing that'll end up killing me, I hope."

Wow, with his vagueness, I'm starting to understand how people feel when I tip toe around the subject of what exactly happened to my arm last week.

"Well, I—"

"Hey, look," he interrupts me, "those stains on your hat are really bugging me. There's something about them that's kinda creepy. Wanna go try washing them off before class starts?"

I shrug. "Whatever floats your boat."

The trip there provides a beautiful example of how crappy and poor our school is: "Like Kenny's family," Cartman would say, if he were here. The walls are practically paper thin. As Stan and I pass the dirtied and yellowed once-white walls of the outside of the girls' bathroom, we hear some giggling coming from within. Being the simple-minded idiots we are, all it takes is one glance to each other to confirm the fact that yeah, we're gonna eavesdrop.

The voices turn out to be those belonging to Red and Annie. Red's giggling like a maniac. "Oh man, Annie," she squeakily starts off, just loud enough for us to hear her, "I had the best day ever on Saturday."

"Oh?" replies her best friend, and I assume that she's got a really big grin on her face.

"Yeah," Red sighs, "I did. Kyle came over and—"

Annie snorts in an interruption. "What, you actually got him away from his fagbuddy Stan—" at this remark Stan and I glance at each other, him rolling his eyes, and me giving a frustrated sigh, "—and at your house?"

"Shut up, Annie!" Red cries. "It's not like that at all. Eliminate all those rumours of Kyle being gay. If there's any proof of those being all wrong, it was Saturday. I had to lure him over with our project but after an hour or so of that, homework was the last thing on either of our minds…"

"What happened?"

"Oh, man, it was amazing. I mean, we took off so fast! It was like our bodies were just made for each other, roving, up and down, all around, exploring all the different parts and areas of each other… Now I'm no whore, but at the rate we were going, we would've needed a condom."

My eyes widen to insane proportions. I hear Annie's gasp from inside. My brain breaks. Stan stares at me and I'm speechless.

"You're joking," Annie firmly states in disbelief. "No way. Kyle Broflovski? Are you serious?"

"I'm totally serious, Annie. He was amazing. He was so irresistible and he was like a complete natural… Whispering sweet nothings in my ear, giving the perfect mood and just tempting me to go so much farther… We went on for hours."

I'm having a hard time comprehending any of this. Hell, right now, I'm having a hard time comprehending the proper spelling of the word "comprehending." Or its meaning. Or anything. Hey English language, what are you again? Stan stares at me, his mouth wide open. I cease to hear anything from inside the girls' bathroom and finally, at long last, my legs give out from under me.

Stan stands above me, looking down, gawking. He holds his arms out open in pure wonderment. "Dude!" he cries out, gazing at me. Then he turns to the wall of the girls' bathroom. "Dude!" he cries out again. He turns back to me. "… Dude!"

I stare at the ground in complete horror. Remembering to keep my voice a bit lower, so as not to be heard by the two freaks going crazy inside, I sharply whisper out in protest, "I don't remember doing any of that!"

He hisses back, "So, she's just making it all up, then?"

I whimper a bit. "I don't think she is, actually… I mean, I remember the aftermath, and things were… pretty loosened up, and… stuff… sweaty… er… I… brain broke." I sit there, staring blankly ahead. My best friend kneels down to my level, and I don't move. Just continue staring.

He rests his hands on my shoulders and stares into my eyes. After a few moments, he swallows and speaks. "Kyle, I think you should tell me what you did over the weekend."

"Brain broke."

"No, I really mean it."

"So do I. Brain broke."

"Kyle…" he sighs.

"Stan," I state, continuing to stare off into nothing, eyes still widened, and the girls in the bathroom forgotten about, while the memory of what Red said remains fresh in my head.

We sit there for a few more moments, and then Stan drags me into an upright standing position with him as he gets up. "Kyle, unbreak your brain. Come on. Let's get out of here."

"… Yeah…" I agree, dazed and completely out of it. After standing there a bit longer, just staring at each other, we wander off to our own lockers and get ready for our first classes. I wish Stan a good luck with Kenny, who hopefully isn't still hyperactive about blowing shit up.

If what Red was true, then that's crazy. No way. She has to be exaggerating. Trying to impress her friend. Except for the one tiny little detail that Bertha is usually incredibly shy, and she would never brag about something unless it happened.

I think I'm going to be sick. Not only the fact that that happened, but the fact that if what she said is true, then I can't control myself if I get fired up. And if what she said that I did was true, then apparently I'm an amazing lover, and she's most likely going to assume that after that night and after how close we apparently got, we're officially an item. And who knows… If she's that seduced by me, and if I don't even know what I'm doing… things could lead to immense trouble.

You know, killing people sounds way easier than this crap. Maybe even just breaking them down. Yeah. Crushing some spirits and whatnot.

Oh god, I don't even know who I am anymore, though. I can't keep my head straight and for someone who figured that ignoring emotions would be the best course of action, I sure am letting them get to me. And if I later continue to blank out and not know what I do anymore, what I say, who I am. I don't even know.

My brain really is broke. I'm broke. Just plain fucked up, if you will. Fucked, too. Yeah, I'm screwed. I fear for myself when the next event comes along. I wish that I could get a hold of myself, but that doesn't seem too likely at this rate. Then again, what _is_ going in favour for me?


	10. Just Friends

_Here's a little tidbit: The end of this chapter is the very bit that inspired me to write this whole fic to begin with, only it's been edited down a bit to go with what's more the flow of the fic (and also to make it way, way less harsh). Take from it what you will, but there are definitely more good times with this to come up ahead. _

_I've been really obsessed with The Simpsons as of late, too. No, my House obsession has not subsided; I just really love The Simpsons right now, eheh. I'm a total Bart fangirl, man. He's awesome. This show is awesome. I'm nice and cozy in my three main fandoms now, and they all rock, to put it simple. But South Park still does rock the most, yes. _

_It seems a few milestones were reached with this chapter: Double digits in chapter numbers, I reached the elusive 50 000 word length here, and this chapter, in my Word Document at least, starts on page 100. _

_It also seems that due to my (totally appropriate) absence, I've lost quite a few of my reviewers. Hey, whatever. I can't say that I'm not a bit disappointed but if you've all given up on me that's fine, too. It just takes me longer to update. I am VERY insecure on my writing and when I get reviews, they inspire me more. It's nice, I guess. But fine, if you don't want to review, whatever, go for not doing that. _

_Summer is pretty much here. I want to get back into writing but I am going to have some business over the summer; however, I'll try to write some more. I have a stronger idea of where I'm going now, anyway. _

_So yeah… Go ahead and read this. Reviews are strongly appreciated. You know, if you can be bothered to. _

* * *

Ever notice how bells are often our saviours? A simple ringing piece of human technology operated by electricity relieves awkward moments, not only with a loud, irritating sound, but with an excuse to leave the scene in a hurry. It's incredibly convenient in a high school setting, especially, due to all of the social troubles that tend to go on here. Sure, elementary has its fair share of those, too, but the ones here are more complex. And annoying. Extremely juvenile, too, sad to say.

Then again, so is complaining about it, and with that, I force my thoughts to stop. My mind protests but my body has already taken over with beautiful mechanical movements and, with that, I become yet another drone in the world.

English is first, and that's just not cool here. Just as my hand clasps around the edge of my binder sitting in my locker, my mind jumps back into the fray, and I cringe. English means I'll have to see Red straight up again. And Cartman. In the same room… except Cartman's not here… it's only prolonging the inevitable. But as far as I'm concerned right now, Red's better (I like girls, _and_ she's not a fatty), but Cartman's the one who can risk the most emotional damage. But, well, hey, if he doesn't want this to happen, and if he wants to keep it all a lie, then he shouldn't be that hurt.

Honestly, I wonder how much help that kid really needs. He acts sane enough but when you combine his family genetics as well as his home setting, you don't know.

And I guess that, when you look at mine, I have absolutely no reason to suddenly snap like this. At times I like it. It makes me feel special, different… powerful. And at times I don't. It makes me feel abnormal, unaccepted… ostracized. And I'm the only one who's doing this to myself.

But… I don't want to face Red. If what she said happened is true, then she's going to be convinced that we're an item. And I really don't think we are. I'm just not all that interested.

When I've got my mind about me, I'm philosophical. I'm calculating, but I also feel. I take things into consideration, think of the consequences of every action I make, and, in general, I don't do anything completely stupid. But it seems that every time my mind slips for one moment, _just one moment_, I've lost everything. Control, memory, sensibility. I act on impulse. I don't like acting on impulse. It leads to disgusting messes.

And at the same time, I'm terrifying myself. My mind is the only thing that keeps my sanity about me, yet it's the thing that's driving me insane to begin with, and I… I can't continue on with this.

Maybe everyone was right. The doctors, my brother, Cartman… I _did_ do this all to myself, didn't I? Except I found the bodies. I saw them just before my eyes started failing me again. I touched them. They were definitely there. Ike didn't see them, but there's a chance I was blocking his view of them, or the snow had covered them up again.

So none of this makes any sense.

So much for stopping thinking. I shake my head and get my grip back onto the binder, pulling it out and tucking it under my arm before closing my locker and deftly spinning the lock around to throw its place off of the third number. It conveniently lands on the first number of the combination. Huh. That's nice.

That saviour of man-made technology rings, and the halls around me are suddenly devoid of human presence, me excluded (if I even want to call myself human anymore. My actions sure aren't dictating it). And that's when a new thought strikes me, and I let the binder slip from my grip. Surprisingly, I manage to keep my legs in check: a first. I carefully slide my ever-so-present hat off of my head, and feel a bit of my hair pop up at its restraint departures. I ignore my seething loathing for it for a moment and turn the green article over on its side.

Those two blood streaks are still there: one is mine, and one is Henrietta's. Henrietta is dead, so she doesn't matter. But I think to myself, _How did I feel when my finger got impaled? _I stare at its bandaging. Nobody has made any remark about it. I draw up the sleeve of my hoodie and stare at my other crude bandaging job of my sliced arm.

_How did I feel when these happened to me? _

I felt scared, shocked, and relieved all at the same time. The first two are understandable. But why the FUCK would I feel RELIEVED. **THAT'S NOT RIGHT.**

I hear footsteps coming down the hall and quickly yank the sleeve back down and force my hat back on my head. Curls are sticking out, but that's okay. As long as nobody questions anything, or—

I have class. That's right. It must be somebody coming to retrieve me. How long have I been standing out here? I can just hear it in my head. _"Bertha, go out and retrieve your partner, please." _The words of "Bertha" and "partner" in the same sentence that way just makes me shudder.

"What's wrong? You cold?" another voice interrupts my musings, and a pair of small arms wrap around me. I bend down and place my hands on my knees in exasperation, and blow a sigh. The person up above giggles at the height change, but maintains her grip. "C'mon, we've got work to do. Although if you wanna blow it off for a few more minutes out here…"

"I'd rather not," I say coolly, and pick up my binder from the ground. Thank god for zippers. One of the last things I really need right now is my stuff sprawling out everywhere and having to collect it all back up together. That would take a while. I mean, I'm organized and all, but organization doesn't do a lot of good when everything is everywhere.

Red bends down with me. "Aw, c'mon, why not? It'll be fun, just like on Saturday!"

_Saturday was not fun, _I think. "Saturday was not fun," I say.

She looks up at me in surprise. "It… it wasn't?"

"Nope."

"… What? Oh, wait, I think I understand," she says. "I interrupted something, didn't I? And you're just speaking out of haste… Yeah, okay. That's fine. I understand."

She's got it all wrong. "No—" I attempt to start, but she refuses to let me get anywhere.

"No, no, it's okay, I understand," she smiles at me, gives me a light kiss on the lips, and stands back up. "Come on, we've got class."

I sigh, shake my head, and wonder how _this_ ended up happening. "This" meaning, of course, a relationship with this girl. Based on what she told Annie, it sounds like she was pretty desperate for me. _Why me?_

* * *

English passed by without a hitch; however, some of the looks of longing I got from the girls and shots of jealousy I noticed being directed at Red were extremely evident, and unnerving. I attempted to ignore them, but failed, as that is a rather hard thing to do when people are staring at you so persistently. At least Red and I made some progress on our novella. And the boys, Stan excluded, were peacefully oblivious. My best friend and I caught eyes at one point. Both were gazing into the other's to attempt to learn of their secrets. I don't like hiding things from him and I'm sure he doesn't like hiding things from me, however, my secrets have already nearly snapped my sanity, and the other event is life-threatening for several, so… I'm not telling.

But other than that? Yeah. Things went nicely. And math is nearly over, so whenever that saviour sends its tones throughout the school yet again—

There it goes.

—Lunch will be here.

I slowly gather up my materials, not reflecting on lessons and problems involving factoring, but rather, where I'm standing on issues of my sexuality, maturity, and sanity. Anything involving the suffix of –ity. I blame Cartman for the first issue, that one really is his fault. Red's to blame for the second, and I'm to blame for the third. Kinda sucks that the third is the most important one. I step outside of the room and immediately get yanked away and in the opposite direction of the lunch room.

"Butters?" I exclaim in surprise. "You're not normally this assertive—"

"Y-yeah, well… This is about you. And you're the only person I feel comfortable talking about these kinds of things to. Okay?" he explains, a pleading look in his eyes. I sigh and allow him to lead me off elsewhere, ignoring the hunger pains in my stomach.

Once we're off and in an area he seems to be happy with, I ask, "Okay, what's up, Butters?" My stomach can go stuff itself. In… the other way. Not the way it wants to. Yeah.

"Well, uh… You know Annie… And how both you and Heidi insisted that she definitely does have a crush on me?"

"Yeah?"

"Er…" he knocks his knuckles together, "Well, I was just thinking of how… umm… she came up to me earlier… And told me about some stuff that Red said—"

"Yeah, and whatever Red told her that she told you, I honestly don't remember any of it," I interject. He looks down at the ground and blushes.

"Oh, well… Um… Th-then I guess that… Well, I wanted to ask you something anyway. How do you know?"

I stare at him blankly. "Know what?"

"When one person is the right one for you."

That was definitely the wrong thing to ask me, because I'm not even completely sure of it myself. I mean, the last person I lusted after, I ended up stabbing in the heart, and I haven't really "loved" anyone. Red came along and somehow I forgot how to think and I got forced into doing something that I _truly_ did not accept nor appreciate nor want. And then, with Cartman… I don't even _know_. It's a possibility, but honestly, I have _no idea_.

"I don't know."

"… Why not? I mean, I'd think you'd at least have it figured out with Red, or something."

"Well, I haven't!" I snap. "I don't have _anything_ figured out, so if you could stray away from this kind of topic, I'd really appreciate it," I hiss. I don't think that I truly mean to snap at him, but with people putting these kinds of pressures on me constantly, how can I not? By now I must be the talk of the school or something. At least the talk of the freshmen. God _damn_ you, Red.

Butters stares at the ground. "O-oh," he mutters softly. "Well, I think I have an idea anyway… When your heart just stops beating with one look at the person, and you can see yourself with them when you're older, you can see your death and your grave lying next to theirs, and it just all hits you at once and you feel totally helpless about the whole thing, but a desperate wanting, and it's all a big daze. I think that's what it's like. And I am feeling that for Annie."

"Good for you," I seethe, fists clenched at my sides.

"But… there's one more pr-problem."

"Goodie."

My snarkiness is making him hesitate, I can easily tell, but with this kid, it doesn't take much to make him pause midway in whatever he's saying. However, I think that he already feels that since he's started, he's obligated to continue.

"It's Heidi. She… she doesn't like any of the other girls. And I think she really dislikes Annie in particular, although I have no idea why. But it's l-like, see, we're each other's only real friends, and it's been that way until we found you outside the cafeteria last week, I th-think, but, um, well… I don't want to lose her over something like a relationship… Because friendships tend to last longer than romance…"

Wait… I knew they were close friends, but each other's only? "Hey, Butters," I interrupt again, "Are you saying Heidi doesn't have any girl friends? And you… have absolutely no guy friends?"

"Y-yeah… I think Heidi said all of the girls ditched her because she was too 'bitchy' and 'pessimistic' for them. And me, w-well, I'm just r-really shy, aren't I, Kyle? None of you guys will stand to be around me b-because I'm so wimpy."

"Then dude, loosen up! Grow a spine! Learn some stuff! Come on, Butters, if you keep having this loser mentality, keep leaving yourself so vulnerable and open, then, well, of course people are going to walk all over you. Come on. Heidi's gotta be able to respect the fact that you're still allowed to like other girls, and if she doesn't, then she isn't your true friend."

He breathes in and runs a sleeve across his eyes. "But then I've got nobody else!"

"Dude, you've got me. And I'll help get you back into a circle with the guys. Stan'll like ya. Kenny should have no problems—" At the mention of my blond friend's name, this blond's eyes fill with worry. "—I don't care about whatever rumours you have heard, Kenny is _not _some kind of manwhore. And it's not like you've got a pair of tits on you to distract him. He's okay." All it takes are these words to reassure Butters.

"What about Eric?" he questions.

I sneer at the name. "Don't even _talk_ to me about that kid," I sputter out in disgust. "I don't even want to _think_ about him." Truth is, although I'd rather not share it with Butters, that if the opportunity presented itself, I'd go back, find and retrieve that knife that killed Henrietta, and stab that fucking fatass right in his goddamn chubby face with it. I'd carve out his eyeballs, stab at them so that they fucking explode, slice his nose clean off and stab him right in the face where it used to be, let him scream as I laugh and watch all of the blood rush out. I'd continuously nick at the top of his head, his hair would be gone, and bits of scalp would be peeled off. I'd delicately go after his lips, carve them off ever-so-gracefully, and then just slash out the inside of his mouth and cut his tongue out and then force-feed it to him. I'd go on from there, I'd cut his ears off bit by bit, taking off small sections from top to bottom in layers. And even then, on a mangled, bloodied corpse, I'd go further… I could slice his arms off, bit by bit, starting at the finger tips until they connect to the torso, and do the same thing with the legs… Just cut the whole thing up until it's an unrecognizable mess… Cut off all that excess fat and do a little dissection on him, see if he truly did have a heart, and if so, stab the hell out of it. I'd even saw through all of the bones if it came to that, which it probably would. Take a peak at all his organs, remove them, stuff it down whatever bits of body parts that are left, through eye sockets, through the huge hole in the throat I'd make. With all of the excess space that would be in his torso, I could fill it up with the small bits and pieces that were his limbs. And I'd laugh the whole time. Just _laugh_ and stare at my bloodstained _everything_ and just _laugh_. I'd get straight through the skull, remove his _waste_ of a brain, cut it in half and dig holes right through it and carve it out. I'd mangle that fucking fat body so bad, nobody would even be able to tell what it once was, if it was ever alive to begin with… I'd fucking _destroy_ it, fucking _murder_ him. And I would just _laugh_.

Hell, the very thoughts are making me giddy. A broad grin comes across my face, and it must be creeping Butters out, because he backs away and nervously asks, "K-Kyle?"

"Hnn?" I respond, half-dazed. "Yeah? What?"

"A-are you okay?"

"Mmm—oh, yeah, I'm perfectly fine, Butters. Just peachy. Uh… Why don't you try going to talk to Stan, or Kenny, or something?"

He looks so grateful that I kind of "dismissed" him. "O-okay, thanks, Kyle… For… Well… helping me through this… and, um… Yeah, thank you. I think I know what to do now." And with that, he gets up and runs off. I must have a murderous look in my eyes in addition to a creepy grin, too.

It's funny, because I think that I know what to do now, too. If I end up getting into a relationship with Cartman, it'd definitely be a huge love-hate one. And I'd totally love to just mangle his body. It would make things interesting. Maybe, if the two of us are fucked up enough, possibly kinky. I think I qualify for being on that level of oddity. But hey, when you hate a person, you don't care _what_ happens to them, as long as it's completely brutal.

Or maybe that's just me.

I hope Cartman comes to school tomorrow. I'll find something pretty and sharp later on. I just wanna see what happens.

It's funny, because these thoughts definitely _are not_ scaring me right now. They feel like a release of pure pent up anger over the past decade. If I could let them out in one big event like that, well, that would just kick ass, plain and simple, and I'd be a happy, happy kid.

I don't think I'm going to bother with lunch today. That mental picture filled me up with enough glee that food isn't even an issue anymore. If it was anyone else, I'd be scared. I threatened to kill Ike, but never in a manner like _that_. No, that's reserved for extreme dicks.

If I really did go through with it, I'd be so pleased with myself. I know it'll never happen, but I can dream and envision, can I not? I head back over to my locker area, thoroughly cheered up and humming a nice little gleeful tune to myself as I play the scene over and over in my mind. Thankfully my thoughts won't get out, and I know that Butters would not make light conversation about my expression, if it and the silence was that bad that it made him want to get away so desperately. (Then again, it doesn't really take much with him.) Hell, you wouldn't be able to drag something like this out of him.

I'll willingly share to anyone who asks, though. Hey kiddies, Kyle isn't just this smart Jewish guy you've known all your lives! Guess what he thinks about when you really piss him off for so long!

I'm happy. I sure could use a sleep, though. Staying up all night running about doing various activities and going to bed sometime when the sun is rising really does seem to put me in a better mood. I know I don't mean everything I think of, but I still did think of it.

People get their entertainment in different ways from different things.

* * *

I was right. A nice sleep did get me in a better, calmer state of mind. It'd always been late night events that got me in that mood, though. The fact that I was able to relieve mental stress so well in the afternoon was a nice change, albeit the weather definitely did not match up to my envisions.

Cartman did come back to school on Tuesday, but we avoided conversation. On Wednesday, we made eye contact, and on Thursday, we sat at the same table for lunch, however, Stan and Kenny were there as well, and we never addressed any specific comments to each other.

Fridays are nice, though, because after this day is over I've got a kickass weekend to look forward to – and then a winter break! We don't really have any specific plans, though. We'll probably just hang out and go do random shit and piss people off in general. And Cartman and I should be able to talk, albeit it'll most likely be incredibly sarcastic, but hey, you go with what you've got to go with. It's better than the sheer murderous thoughts I had on Monday, entertaining as they were.

I wonder how he feels about _me_. If the feelings were mutual, that would make one kickass of a fucked up relationship. I should talk to him about this someday.

I'll see later on. I've still got half of the day left before we're all free for the next two weeks. For those few remaining hours, I let my mind be dominated by school work, and think of nothing else. Words fly onto my papers and scientific and historic thoughts flow into my mind. I read the required material and finish off any chances that homework would have come up to ruin and cut off my break. God knows I could sure use one.

Everyone else around me is goofing off and pissing around and just making a lot of noise and screaming and shouting, but I'm lost and locked off in my own little world – I don't even recognize the fact that the bell had already rang until Bebe pokes her head into the classroom. "Oh," I hear her softly say, and I look up from what I was reading, "there you are."

"Bebe?" I question, and she grins.

"Kyle, school's been out for nearly half an hour by now. Don't you wanna leave?"

I get up and start packing my stuff. "Uh, yeah, I do," I stutter out awkwardly, my face flushed with embarrassment. "What are you still doing here, then?"

"I was looking for you," she casually replies, jumping up and sitting on a desk, and tucking a loose strand of frizzed hair behind her ear. "I was wondering if you had heard anything from Stan."

"… About…?"

"His relationship. With Wendy," she explained, taking that same strand and twirling it around her finger. "Y'see, Wendy's shared a bit of information with me, although not enough for me to be able to really understand what's going on. She said that her relationship with Stan might be ending, but didn't say _why_… or if it _would_…"

I glance up momentarily, only semi-interested. "Really? They've seemed fine to me."

"Kyle, where have you _been _this past week?" I'd like to know myself. It just flew right by. "They've been having so many awkward moments together! They've tried at least two more dates, and Wendy told me that they just weren't working out, and she's really worried, and hopes that it's all just going to be a phase, but she really isn't sure anymore."

"I see."

"Kyle! This is serious!" she yells at me. All I could do was roll my eyes in response.

"Bebe, come on. We're fourteen-fifteen years old. _No_ dating issue is serious at this age, unless they're going all the way." Apparently I'm one to talk. "Besides, it's not even _your_ relationship."

Bebe sighs, frustrated. "Kyle, you have not seen Wendy when she's broken up—"

"What are you talking about? _She_ was the one who broke up with Stan the first time!"

"Kyle, we were nine years old!"

"Yeah, and he was absolutely crushed!"

"Well it's not like things lasted with her for Token, either! And besides, last year, it was _Craig_ who broke up with her… That was her first relationship since fourth grade! She was a complete mess!"

I sigh. "Well, that's _Wendy_, and not _you_."

"You don't have to deal with her afterwards."

"Bebe, she's your _best fucking friend_. 'Deal with?' You don't talk about it like that!" This is kind of starting to piss me off. No wonder people consider Stan and I so close, even if we are only best friends. We treat each other _way _better than the other apparent "best friends," it seems. This is just disgraceful and pathetic. "And _you_ didn't have to deal with _Stan_ when _Wendy_ broke up with _him_."

"Why the HELL do you keep bringing that up, Kyle? That was five fucking years ago! We were just kids!"

"Oh, so it doesn't matter when you're 'just kids?'"

"No!"

"Then what's the point of having a goddamn childhood at all?" I demand from her. "Look, fine, Stan and Wendy might break up. Big deal. You go comfort Wendy and I'll take care of Stan and all will be well and right with the world again. Don't stress out over it."

The frizzy blonde-haired girl sighs once again and gets up from the desk. "I was just wondering if you had any idea why they would be breaking up," she attempts one last time.

"Not a clue," I half-heartedly respond as I finish packing up my stuff and head out to my locker to go drop stuff off. Bebe tags along with me. "What? I said I don't know anything!"

"I know," she says, "But still… Well… Yeah, okay. Thanks, Kyle." She stares at me as I continue walking. "Man, if what Red says about you is true, I can't believe I let you go."

I deftly open up my locker. "_But we were just kids in third grade,_" I mimic in a higher-pitched voice, "_It didn't matter back then._"

"I'm still with Clyde, aren't I?"

"You're a hypocrite."

"That may be, but…" I shut my locker and start heading out the door, "you've still got a pretty sweet ass," she finishes, hanging back. I snort, roll my eyes, and leave for my vacation.

* * *

Winter break came and went. Many good times were, indeed, had. My three friends and I went out together most days of the break, generally causing trouble and pissing the citizens of South Park off by throwing rocks at cars, as well as at former teachers', principals', and counsellors' houses. Among that there were several holes to push people into, and several arguments to be had between Cartman and I for the entertainment and amusement of Stan and Kenny.

I also got a chance to spend some alone time with both Kenny and Stan, separately. Kenny and I lit crap on fire and blew shit up out by Stark's Pond. I've never really opened up to this apparent pyromaniac side of me, but Kenny was able to convince me into it, and I'm pretty glad that he did because it's a lot of fun. We could really have used some hugeass fireworks then and there.

Stan and I just slept over a few times and sat around in the mornings playing video games and watching cartoons while eating sugary cereals. Cartman and I avoided each other except when we were out together as a group, but that's a normal enough occurrence, so no real worries stem from it.

I spent Christmas Eve's morning with Stan, but after going back home, didn't interact with any of them until crazy hyped up Boxing Day sales of the 26th. Those were fun; however, Stan's cheerfulness seemed really, really forced at points. I thought back to what Bebe said about him and Wendy falling out, and wondered if it happened. I tried to not let myself get completely bothered by it, though, as none of it was really my business.

The days were lazy and perfectly normal until the last day of winter break. The night before the four of us spent the night out in Cartman's backyard, being fed whatever food his mom could come up with. It was awesome: no wonder he's so goddamn fat. We lied out on our backs in the snow and just gazed up at the stars and relished in that squeaky clean New Years feel. That was how we spent the turn of it. Idle chatter, junk spread out around us, and staring up at the stars and all-nightering.

I decided that yes, while Cartman does, indeed, suck, if I _can_ keep my head about him, I'm capable of getting along with him. I've caught him staring at me a few times, but every time he's noticed me glance his way, he's freaked out and turned away immediately to stare at something else that seemed plausible. Once again, all was relatively well with the world.

But on the last day, Cartman and Kenny ran off to do their own thing, while Stan and I stuck together and went over to his house. The laziness ended with the impending doom of school within less than twenty-four hours now hanging above us in a massive amount of suck.

"So what're we gonna do today?" I ask him, turning over to stare at him. Neither of us had bothered to move from our sleeping bags, which we had plopped straight back down as soon as we had arrived.

"'unno," he grunts back, burying his face back into his pillow. "Urghh… We could… I don't know. Eat stuff?"

I sit up. "Sounds fun enough… Giddup."

"Laaaateeer," he whines.

"But I'm hungryyyy," I moan back in response.

"Fiiiine," he groans, rolling over and sitting up, using what seems like quite a bit of effort. The two of us stagger into his kitchen, and he fishes for decent cereal while I search for bowls. They're all in the sink, except for one huge one in a cupboard.

Stan turns back around to the counter with boxes of random cereal in his hands and a carton of milk hanging off by his pinkie finger. I nod over at the sink. "Unless you feel like washing those, we're eating out of one," I inform him. He merely shrugs in response and complies by pouring a lot of cereal in it.

We move out to his living room and I place the giant bowl down onto the coffee table. As we sit there, eating together out of the same bowl in synch, with joined up chewing and everything, he breaks it for one moment to click the power button on his remote to give us something to watch. Terrance and Phillip pops up immediately, so we stick with that.

"I say, Terrance, I'm so happy that you aren't horribly obese anymore!" Phillip cries out.

"So am I, Phillip, so am I!" Terrance replies in full Canadian enthusiasm.

"Yes, you kept gorging out on burritos and ice cream. Your farts were massive yet sweet-smelling!" exclaims Phillip before letting a small one rip himself. The two stared at each other for a moment before bursting out into hysterical giggles. Stan and I felt only completely obliged to join them. We sat there, rather entranced for the remainder of the episode, only broken by laughter when some wisecrack or fart sound was made.

I was satisfied. He was satisfied. We didn't have to say anything to each other. Life was perfect at this moment. Just the company of your best friend, the obnoxious blaring of your favourite childhood TV show, and a huge bowl of sugared up grain doused in milk in front of you is all anyone needs to have a good time.

That is, until the bowl is empty and the TV show is over – then we were at a loss for activities.

"Wanna go back to sleep?" I ask.

"Nah, I'm awake now – let's get out something bloody and brutal… or something totally gay, boring, and stupid." He gets up and went over to where a little games closet sat in an alcove, and remerges, calling for me to come help him pick. Muttering to myself about having to stand up, I wander over.

"… Let's play Hungry Hungry Hippos."

"Why?"

"Because we're idiots."

"True that."

We haul the game out together and waste hours on end with senseless chatter and marble-gobbling up plastic hippos. What a way to enter the new year and finish off our two-week break: with such extreme maturity.

But it doesn't really matter, because we're best friends, and nothing will ever change that. If there's any guy in the world I want to waste my life away with, it's Stan.

"Hey, Kyle," he randomly pipes up sometime after we got bored of the game and left it sitting on the floor in favour of putting it back away. We decided to go up to his room and piss around with stuff in there about half an hour ago. "You remember, waaay back on the last Monday of school, you said you'd talk to me about what happened? Y'know, before we heard what Red was talking about? 'cause that was all well and good, but doesn't really explain the red crap on your hat… and now that I think about it, it doesn't really explain those bandaged up areas…"

I glance up at him from my spot of lying backwards on the floor. "Huh? What prompted bringing this up?"

He props his head up by digging his elbows into the mattress of his bed and resting his chin on his hands. "Oh, well, uh, I just really figured out what it was bugging me…"

"Really? What?" I ask.

"I asked you first. You go first."

I look down at the floor. "I'm, uh, really not sure… It's been really crazy for me, but it's been relatively nice and normal the past three weeks… For the most part, I mean… But basically, it's like, I'm losing it. My mind, my sanity, whatever, it keeps on disappearing and reappearing and it isn't doing me ANY good whatsoever. All it's doing is making things a really big, confusing mess, to the point where I'm not sure of what my actions should be, if I'm doing the right thing, if I'm doing what _I_ consider to be the right thing… Dude, my morals keep on changing and conflicting and it's driving me absolutely crazy…"

"When did it all start?" he asks, looking down at me, concern evident in his eyes.

"About a month ago, when I got—umm—hospitalized… yeah…" Oh, god, I almost let that slip there.

Stan snickers a bit. "Hah, that's about the time my issue started up, too."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what _is_ it?"

He pauses. "No, dude, you go on and finish… Then we'll come to me. What happened to get you so badly hurt? You were almost killed out there!"

"… I'm not yet comfortable with saying that. Stan, I'll tell you this much: I was warned that if I reveal the details of that night at any point and at any time, I'll be found and killed, and my loved ones will be brutally tortured to the point where they'll just lose it and commit suicide… And I don't want anything completely horrible happening to you."

"… Oh," he simply says, staring in wonderment at his wall.

I cough, and his attention is back on me and my face. "Yeah, so… I _do_ have a good excuse for not explaining myself, and I'm not just trying to keep things completely hidden."

"Well, what about afterwards?" he inquires.

"You know, I've found it odd that nobody ever mentioned Henrietta's absence from school during that last week."

Stan snorts and takes off his hat to start fiddling around with the poof ball on it. "Oh, come on, Kyle. Everyone knew she was extremely melodramatic and suicidal. Not many people noticed her to begin with. Why do you know? You're one of the _last_ people who would _ever_ have had _any _interaction with her whatsoever."

Well, I guess it's time for the kicker. "… I killed her."

Stan simply gawks and drops his hat, letting it fall the short distance to the floor. "Wh-what?" he croaks out, staring at me in complete disbelief.

"Yeah, you remember that whole morals thing I was just whining about? … Yeah."

He's still staring at me. I don't like this silence, so I finally admit something out loud for once: "It wasn't my idea, though! She-she forced a knife into my hands. It explains why my finger is all bandaged up, she threw it at me earlier, and, and it went right through, pretty much…" I pause, hesitant, to see his reaction so far. The concern on his face is even bigger than before. It's amazing. "So, um… Basically, after she thrust the knife into my hands at one of the last points… Well you should know I did have a crush on her, but now I'm pretty certain she never returned my feelings, and was just using me. She thrust the knife into my hands and leaned in to kiss me, and, uh… She pierced herself. Right with that. But it's started off a bad chain of events so far, that has been going _completely_ on and off, and I just don't know what to do anymore… I've fantasized about murdering people brutally, cutting them up; I even did that to Henrietta's corpse a bit… And yet the very next day I'll be appalled at my previous thoughts… Dude, you have no idea how good it feels to finally get this off my chest and out in the open…"

Stan just shakes his head as if getting out of a trance. "… Wow," is all he says after a while. "Just… just… wow, dude. You've been… I mean… Do you need help? Do you need to see a shrink?"

"I'd rather not. Tell me what's been up with you, now."

He sighs. "Well, uh… You remember, a month ago, after you were first landed in that hospital, and I had to hide under your bed for a bit?" I nod. "Yeah, of course you do. Well that was about when I realized something about our bond. It's been crazy strong. Over a decade of friendship and throughout all of the times we've had less fights than I can count on both of my hands. I mean, it's pretty impressive, man.

"And you remember that panic attack you had during your first week back?" I nod once again. "And I managed to calm you down. Dude, that really set it off for me. I had to twist and turn with my thoughts and work things out, I did that the whole weekend. It was… it was painful, it was hard. You're right, opening up does feel good."

I nod and watch him with interest. His facial expressions, his body language, everything. He looks so tense. "Yeah – go on," is all I can be bothered to say, though. I'm still hanging off of his every word though.

He nods hesitantly. "Yeah… I broke up with Wendy a few days ago."

"Bebe told me she was expecting something like that to happen after the last day."

"She did?" he asks, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Did she say she knew why?"

"No. She was asking me if I did."

"Oh. Well, yeah. You know what I did on Christmas day? I spent the whole day with Wendy. Just as one final time, because I don't think we're going to get back together again. Who knows, I might be wrong about this whole thing. It'd sure make things easier if I was, but I've dealt with this for a month, and, well… I'm close enough to being certain, I guess. It's… it's a bit odd, I feel, sure, after so many years of complete normalcy, or, well, at least as normal as it can possibly be here." He gave a light laugh at that last comment, and I guess I did join him there. "Yeah…"

I look up at him. "So, dude, are you going to tell me what's up or not?"

"I will…" he looks back down. "I'm just not sure. I've already told you pretty much the background, I guess. I'm just… I don't know how to say this."

"Dude," I offer, "if you tell me, I'll tell you what happened to me that one night. That night that started the whole psychotic thing with me. I'm sure nothing will happen, I mean, nobody else is around here… Yeah… How could he possibly know?" I feel so goddamn paranoid. I can't believe I just made that promise. Whatever I might have said, I definitely do not believe it. I flop down completely on the floor in a pathetic attempt to hide myself.

Stan stares at me questioningly for a bit, before asking, "Who's he?"

"I don't know exactly, but, uh… Dude, just tell me what's up, will you?"

"This is so much more different now that I'm aware of what's been going on with you, Kyle. I mean, I guess it would be pretty close to an ultimate test with you, or some other gay sounding thing…" He trails off once again, and his eyes shut, and he takes in a deep breath. "I can't do this."

I sit up so that we're on an eye-to-eye level. "Come on, Stan. I'm not going to ditch you. I may have gone mentally insane or something, but not once have I thought negatively about you, have wanted to kill you, and I've thought that way about a _lot_ of people recently."

He gives a weak little laugh. "That's nice to know, I guess. Look, can I just get a few minutes to myself?"

"Sure," I respond, and he gratefully shuts his eyes and lowers his head. I fear that he may have gone to sleep, but if he's this hesitant of telling me, then I don't want to pressure him. I can't lose Stan. He's the one person that it seems was able to keep me sane, the one person I haven't been irritated with in a long while, the one person I feel I can explain anything to. I never mentioned Henrietta's death out loud before. Sure, like he said, nobody would really care about her, but it's the fact that I did commit murder.

It must have been big enough news for him learning that his very own freaking best friend has snapped and gone nuts. On and off, too, so I never really know what's going to happen when. It's horrible. And I don't know if I'll ever snap at Stan. I can't see myself ever doing it, ever harming him, or anything like that. I just can't. I couldn't afford to, nor do I ever, **_ever _**want to do such a thing. He's my best friend, nothing more, nothing less. We're completely perfect for each other here.

I know that I promised him that I would tell him of how my initial injury occurred, but I don't think I could even do that. I don't care how paranoid I'm being, it's still extremely life-threatening. Screw everyone else. If I get hurt, then, well, that's completely god awful, but if Stan gets hurt because of me, I don't think I'd be able to live with that.

… I think I've just found something. Stan is the only person I care about more than myself.

Shows what a truly amazing friendship can do… I guess soul mates _do_ exist, although not necessarily in the prospect of lovers. Friendship is much, much stronger than love, I'd like to believe. You have friends before you ever get to the stage of wanting to have a lover. And love has been made into such a commitment, with completely gay and pointless ceremonies used to show the bondage between these two people or whatever… It's just stupid and overrated, and way too hyped up. I'd much rather kick back with my best friend any day than with, oh, say, Red, providing I acted around her all of the time like I did that one afternoon. Friends have less arguments, less pointless fights, and just more good times in general. The choice is obvious to anyone with any intelligence at all, and yet most people like to lean towards the other side. It makes no sense to me.

"I… I think that I'm ready," Stan looks straight at me. "I just hope that you don't hate me."

I shake my head at him. "Dude, from what I was just thinking… I don't think it'd ever be possible for me to hate you." This gets a bit more of a confident smile out of him.

"Well, then," he says. "That's awesome. So, Kyle…"

"Yes?"

"I just sealed the deal, I think. It seems obvious to me now. Um, Kyle…"

"Stan, just tell me what it is already."

"… Kyle, I… I love you. And not in a best friends way. I mean actual, true love."

I stare at him, my eyes wide, my mouth hanging open. That's all I can do. I can't think of a reply, nothing. _This…_

I go with the first reaction my brain supplies me with. I don't want to do this, but nothing else is coming to me, and it's over in a split second before I had a chance to stop myself.

My best friend just floundered about, unsure of if he should even have said this, and then he opens up with me… And all I can give to him in return is a punch right back in his face.


	11. Stan and Kyle

_Okay, guys, I'm totally serious when I say this: I feel SO bad for taking so long to update. I've figured out what does help inspire me, though, and that's reading some really good fanfiction while listening to some really good music. I'm going to try to make an update every two weeks now, and I sure hope that I can stick to it. I don't know how long this thing is going to be._

_On that tone of thought, I had completely different plans for this chapter, too, but it ended up going completely out of hand, so part way through I just decided to make the whole thing revolve around one particular subject. Initial plans were to describe what happened to Kyle in the first chapter… But I guess those got a bit postponed. Ah, well. I'll get to it soon enough._

_And I appreciate all of your reviews so, so much, so thanks to all who bear through with me and my slow updates, and still bother to give me their thoughts! You rock!_

* * *

_My best friend just floundered about, unsure of if he should even have said this, and then he opens up with me… And all I can give to him in return is a punch right back in his face._

And he has no problem with returning the action, it seems.

We entertain each other by mirroring the other's physical actions, both gingerly reaching up with our left hands to touch our left cheeks and stare at the other in pure shock.

"What the hell was that?" we both shout out at each other at the same time, still in perfect synch. Both our arms lower. Both our hands are suddenly clenched into fists. Both of us look ready to leap on the other and start beating the shit out of them.

Stan shouts before I get the chance to. "Kyle, what the fuck?" he screams.

"Stan, what the fuck?" I copy.

His fists clench even tighter, I find myself grinning at this whole situation in a totally cheeky manner. This seems to enrage him even further.

"What the fucking hell are you doing?" he demands, "What the fuck are you thinking? Who the fuck—what the fuck—why the fuck—why did you do _that_!"

I suddenly feel like being a bastard. My face fucking hurts. "I could ask the same question, y'know," I respond, letting my hands relax, folding my arms across my chest, and tapping the fingers of one hand against the other arm. My eyes are small and smile furiously annoying, and that's the way I want it. My face still really fucking hurts.

His eyebrows have crashed down into his eyes, giving him a perfectly angered expression. "You said you would accept this. You said that whatever it was, it wasn't going to be a problem."

"Well, yeah, but I meant that as _friends_!" I shoot back.

"Some friendship that is!" he cries, smacking me again. "So much for being accepting, huh?" Stan snorts, clenching his fists even further. I'm sure if he had some kind of weapon near him he'd kill me in this heat of the moment.

I stare back at him, outwardly unmoved, inwardly collapsing. "You called me one of your 'loved' ones, Kyle!" Stan declares, "You said you didn't want me to get hurt!" I feel _something_ rising in my throat. "How else was I supposed to fucking interpret that? All of that goddamn peer pressure, this whole manner you've been acting around me—"

"**Because you were the only person I could dare feel comfortable around! You were the only one who was capable of making me feel calm! You were my one true, honest, down-to-earth friend! It was you! Only you! And as _friends_! _Only friends!_**"I shriek. I almost feel like killing him now. Getting back up onto my feet, I loom over him, jump into him, push him back, and find a good, forceful hold, pushing him back up against the wall. He doesn't do anything at first, possibly relishing in the contact – and that just nauseates me. I'm fucking open-minded but this I can't tolerate, so I start hitting him.

The bad thing is that he's still stronger than me. Kicking out with his feet and catching me in my stomach, he catches me and pushes me back off and onto the floor, where I land on my back, hard. Tears from both physical and emotional pain spring to my eyes. I'm the first to break down like that. This can't be any good for my masculinity.

Stan gets off of his bed and stands up, looming over me now. He takes a deep breath in and kicks out at me once. His eyes are dry but it's evident from their unfocused, wavering gaze that he's thrown off almost as much as I am. He kicks me again, harder this time. I'm powerless to do anything to stand up for myself.

"… I can't even think of anything to say…" he breathes out.

"Then don't fucking say anything, faggot," I spit back, bringing my head back up and pushing myself off of the ground with my forearms.

"_Don't call me that!_"

"Why not? It's true!" I may still be crying, but the bit of my mental stability is returning, and trying to form purely rational arguments against all of this.

He grinds his teeth together, still not one for crying. "Because you say it like a fucking insult, like you fucking hate me."

"Well maybe I do!"

He turns his back on me. "Such a strong fucking friendship indeed, huh, Kyle?" Ouch, oh, sure, play it where it hurts, you flaming jackass. "Get the fuck out of here."

"No need to even tell me," I reply, spitting on his floor and slamming the door. I take one deep, shuddering breath, lean back against his door, slide down against it, wipe my eyes, get back up, jump down from the top of the stairs, somehow catch myself in a roll, open his front door. I don't bother closing it.

As I meander my way back to _my_ home, I see kids out there still playing. Taking in their last day of freedom before the threat of school comes back. A little girl throws a snowball at a little boy. I envision that snowball having a sharp shard of ice still in it, striking the kid, poking his eye out and making it explode. Blood gushing out everywhere, passing out from the pain as the ice shard digs further in and all the way through. The girl rushes over, crying, but then she gets struck down by… oh, lightning, or something. And it leaves a smouldering, blackened body, vital organs exploded. Gunshots fire out at all of those kids out there playing, leaving bloodied, mangled corpses, providing quite the feast for quite the cannibal. Little fucking kids. And anyone else who wants to be out there, too.

I want to go on a murderous rampage _so freaking bad_ right now.

Fuck you, Stan, fuck you. Go to hell you little cocksucking sonofabitch. Little twisted backstabber you'll die by my own hands I fucking swear it.

I draw up mental plans in my head, envisioning disgusting deaths for all those around me that I see, mind working beyond overtime, incredibly focused on the task at hand. Make other people suffer. All the whole freaking way home. Way rhymes with gay, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking hell.

I don't relieve any physical anger. That's saved for people, not inanimate objects. Innocent inanimate objects are meaningless. Innocent live people can scream. That just makes it all the more fun. Guilty live people are even greater. So I walk as any normal person would, albeit fists clenched in frustration, up the stairs to the second floor and my room. And from within there I lock the door, grab a sketchbook I've got used for any wandering thought I may have; mostly school-related. I go to a blank page, the next one in line, and start writing up gore in any way I can think of. Not just senseless gore, but planning gore. Some way to get back at that little motherfucker: "best friend." Best friend my ass, which you ain't gettin' into.

* * *

"Welcome back, students!" booms an overly cheerful response over the intercom system, resulting in groans from many teenagers who feel that Monday mornings should not exist. I, on the other hand – not a morning person – am feeling just fine. Brought that sketchbook with me in my backpack. Written plans, lists, and even drawn-out diagrams are littered throughout it, and I feel like adding to it some more. I hum cheerfully, ignoring the little happenings going on amongst my peers pre-English class, and turn to a new page, doodling brains spilled out against a wall in merely manila background and grey pencil lead. "—and we expect you all to be perfectly well behaved. Have a good day!" the announcement finishes itself, and I laugh at the "well behaved" comment. I have no intentions of doing so. To put it simply, fuck that!

"BROFLOVSKI!" I glance up from my work and see my English teacher up front, red in the face and looking quite flustered.

"Yes?" I answer simply, folding my hands over the sketchbook.

She comes up to my desk. The class watches, glued to the scene like little fucking subordinate monkeys. "You know I do not approve of drawing in this class. I have been calling your name for well over a minute now. Hand the book over, please."

I bring my hands back, drawing the sketchbook back with them. "No."

"Then I'm afraid I'll just have to—" I tune out her threats instantly. I am only just now aware of the danger I've brought upon myself. If anybody finds out about all of this shit I've drawn, written up, I'll be sent off to some freaking psych ward or asylum. I've been there once before under false pretences, and they convinced me it was real. I _don't_ want to go back. Especially when this time the cause is a lot more just.

There, I admit it. I'm crazy.

"… Excuse me?"

"What?"

"What did you just say, Kyle?"

"… I said that out loud?"

I glance around the room once again, observing the monkeys. Stan in particular. While everyone else is just kind of gawking, he rolls his eyes, mutters, "No shit" under his breath, and turns his gaze back to the paper lying on his desk. He glances up at the board, and then turns back to his paper, writing something down.

I'm totally cool, totally calm, totally collected, and yet, for some reason, all of this sudden attention on me is causing my eyes to start watering. I notice, out of the corner of my eye, Stan's glancing at me out of the corner of _his_ eye, and he's smirking.

The collectedness of me snaps, and stuffing that condemning sketchbook into my backpack, I jump up, standing upright on my seat. Stan sits next to me in this class. Naturally. I point down at him, and scream at him, "I'LL KILL YOU, YOU LITTLE FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!" and then I leap down onto him, pushing him off of his seat, engaging in a petty rolling, tumbling, kicking, punching, biting, squabbling match. I'm sure the rest of the room is surprised as fuck that Kyle, freaking _Kyle Broflovski_, intellectual and best friends with Stan Marsh, just did that.

I took him off-guard for a second, but then he plunges into it, as aware of what's going on as I am and fighting back, the rest of the world totally shut off from us. Slamming each other into walls, desks, pushing each other down onto the floor, making each other bleed. I wonder how hard this is on his gaiety. Maybe it's just like Cartman, and he loves me, but he also hates me.

I don't blame him, but I wonder if he blames me for my hate.

I'm sure some student, Cartman in particular, has broken off from the total shock to make some smartass remark. I'll deal with that kid later. I'm sure that the teacher has tried to stop us in some way, but if she has, neither of us have noticed it. We're too engaged in our gay little wrestling match.

Somehow, I manage to gain an upper hand, and slam my former best friend down into the floor. He responds by kicking up into me, and it's only through some quick evasion skill I didn't know that I possessed that my balls are unharmed. He jumps back up and we're back on standing ground. He has a black eye and I'm sure that I have two. Blood pours out from his nose, I'm sure I've got plenty of bleeding cuts and scrapes all over me, too, that I just don't feel. In some miraculous way, both of our hats remain firm upon our heads.

Nothing else really extreme happens in our fight until Stan somehow manages to pull off the carefully redone bandage I had wrapped around my injured and totally scarred left arm. It gives everyone a clear look at the long, scabbed, blood-infested wound, and just looking at it makes me want to throw up… As well as cut it there again, only myself.

But revealing this injury to everyone pumps even more adrenaline through me, and I'm even more enraged. I slam Stan's head against a wall, and he crumples down to the ground, seemingly defeated. That one kick to my balls I first managed to avoid, however, comes back this time, just as he collapses.

It hurts like a freaking motherfucker. We're both still conscious but totally out of commission, bruised, battered, beaten and bloody all over. It's a total wonder nobody managed to intervene.

Then again, with the spare time I now have, and ability to let my attention and focus move on to other subjects, I can see why that is. Nobody stood up or anything. They all just sat there. A lot of eyes are still wide and uncomprehending. Stan and Kyle, total best friends, only fight out with words and ever so rarely with actions, and NEVER with each other, just beat each other up during class time. It must be mind boggling for them. Cartman and Kenny in particular look absolutely astounded.

I continue letting my eyes rove around, the pain still a prominent force in my mind. I see our teacher. She's standing by my desk. She's looking through my sketchbook.

I wonder what's going to happen to us now, extreme detention? Guidance counsellor? Principal? All sorts and kinds of crack teams comi—

She's looking through my sketchbook? She's looking through my sketchbook.

Oh… oh fucking shit hell damn cunt bitch cock motherfucker cocksucker dick asshole gaywad fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck goddamnit.

I. Am. SCREWED.

* * *

I've been sitting outside of this office for hours now. _We_ have. The rest of the day was denied from the two of us for our, or, rather, _my_ outburst, and we've had to wait it out while principals and vice principals and guidance counsellors and parents and witnesses and whoever the fuck else was called in discuss what happened. They day is over by now and they're _still_ at it, and neither one of us has been called in yet.

It's amazing. We've been incredibly close to unsupervised this whole time, and the distance between us isn't too huge.

I haven't bothered to cover up my gash again. Let everyone freaking see it, I just don't care anymore. If that had never happened to me, chances are this situation wouldn't even be occurring right now: Stan and I would have remained friends. He may not have developed any feelings for me, and even if he had, I probably would have still been sane enough to accept it and move on, and then all would have been well.

But no, I just can't come up with a break, now can I?

I growl at Stan, speaking my first words in hours. "You little asshole, if you hadn't been so friggin' cocky and _smirked_ like that, this never would have happened."

"No," he responds, and I can see that he's completely torn up inside, "if you could control your temper, THEN this never would have happened."

"Listen, bitch," I sit up from my slouch and point an accusing finger at him, "you have no idea what the hell I've gone through, so—"

"So? So what?" he interrupts me, jumping up onto the floor. "So you think it's only you? Like _I_ haven't gone through any mental torture! You have no idea how hard this is for me!"

I roll my eyes, but remain seated. "How hard it is for you? Oh, like you've had to experience any _real_ pain, you little fag! Oh wah wah wah, my emotions, wah wah wah. You really are totally gay, aren't you? See this arm? See this finger? Tell me _that_ isn't pain! That _and_ having to go through all of this mental shit! I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore! I look out at the world and all I see is fucking red! Blood! Death and gore everywhere! And all I want is to be the cause of it all! And _you're_ supposed to be worse off than _me_?"

"Kyle," he says, snarling, "sure, you may have it off pretty fucking shitty right now, but any thoughts that this might be all your fault for succumbing in so easily and letting yourself get pushed around? It's been happening all the time, you've never stood up for yourself, and when you have you just get pushed around again. Now that you're finally letting loose and rebelling, you're acting no better than before. You're the other extreme. Grow up. You couldn't kill anyone in cold blood and you know it. Even if the chance was right there, right in front of you, you just couldn't do it. Stop making these empty threats." And with that, Stan stretches himself out across a couple of seats, his back facing me.

I stare at his backside with blank comprehension.

…

Asshole. Fucking asshole.

He's probably right, too. I'm nothing but a fucking coward.

He's still a fucking faggy asshole, though, so screw him.

I don't know how to feel. Sure, I'm pissed. Yeah, I'm infuriated. And yeah, I know that there's about jackshit I can do about it.

I've lost my freaking best friend. My best friend of over a dozen years. And it hurts; it really, really does hurt. I want to kill people and, in turn, be killed. What's that called…? Murder suicide. Stan's totally right, though, but if anything else pushes me and I become totally unstable, and gain any kind of destructive weapon, it just may happen. Who's to say, though? After all, I'm crazy. I announced it earlier. It's official, isn't it?

And to think, I never harboured thoughts of craziness until that guidance counsellor suggested something of the sort. _Kyle, at the mental state you're in right now… _Well isn't that just great. Some fucking mental state. I want to crawl into a hole.

Suddenly, a door is opened, shocking both Stan and I. The principal is standing there. "Boys, if you could please come in now."

We comply, although frankly, I want to shoot down authority where it stands. Let me get something good done. Anarchy can only lead to violence and bring out the worst in people with no laws to govern them by, but hey, all the more horror, right? I wonder if I'd feel at home amongst great destruction.

Eyes are set on me first. "Kyle, what prompted this?" I'm asked.

I don't bother answering this, choosing to turn my head away and fold my arms across my chest instead.

"Kyle."

"You've seen the fucking sketchbook," I spit out.

A throat is cleared. "I assure you, nobody has so much as looked at one picture—"

"Who the fuck are you trying to fucking kid?" I spit out again. Out of the corner of my eye I see Stan looking at me in confusion.

"We would like to ask that you not use such language—"

"Fuck you."

"Kyle—"

"I _said_, 'Fuck. You.'"

Sighing, the principal's attention turns to Stan. "Stanley, can _you_ tell us what happened?"

"Sure," he responds coldly. "Little baby Kyle over there can't control his temper, so he lashes out at those who he feels have wronged him."

The guidance counsellor suddenly butts in. "In what way could you have possibly wronged him, Stan?" she asks, feigning friendship and compassion.

"I will not answer this question," he replies, giving them his own cold shoulder.

"Boys!" the principal starts, slamming his hands down onto his desk. "You're teetering over onto the edge of expulsion! If you answer our questions, the punishment will be less harsh. Now kindly do comply!"

Still glaring at the wall, I say, "Don't waste my time with your bullshit empty threats."

"Yeah, you know all about those, don't you Kyle?" Stan remarks.

I ignore that remark and simply get up and leave. I don't want to be bothered with this. I have nobody in the whole fucking world, all of my time has simply been wasted away, and my existence is uncertain, unstable, and should not have been to begin with. I ignore the orders telling me to return to my seat. I ignore it all and simply walk out of there.

I get my first look at a clock and see that it's really only lunch time. I listen to the ticks for a while before suddenly hearing the footsteps behind me; ones that had been disguised and fell nicely in time with the clock.

"Kyle?" a bright voice from behind me asks. I don't turn around to answer it; rather, I walk away from it. "Kyle," the voice says again, more affirmative, and a hand comes on my shoulder. I shrug it off and continue walking, keeping the same pace. "Kyle!" the guidance counsellor tries one last time, grabbing me and stopping me. I act as if nothing has happened.

"Come with me, please," she says, letting go of me. I continue walking the other way.

"Kyle, **now**." As if ordering me around will suddenly make me comply. "I only want to help."

I continue walking. Suddenly that goddamn sketchbook is dangled into my view. "If you want this back, then you'll have to come back to my office with me."

Little bitch! Those are _my_ own thoughts, you can't hold them hostage! Admitting defeat, I grit my teeth, clench my fists, and follow her back to her office. I have never been so angry at myself before for complying, but mostly for being so _stupid_ and bringing content like that to school with me… Not only that, but taking it out and having it accessible to anybody who so much as chooses to look over my shoulder. I'm a total idiot for doing that. What the fuck was I thinking? Was I too distracted in what a false hope is, anyway?

You know, I had better just drop this whole thing all together. There are bigger issues to worry about.

Like Stan. Why the fuck did this have to happen?

* * *

Inside her office, it's a totally different story. The counsellor is suddenly asking me detailed questions about how everybody treats me. Friends, peers, strangers, family, administrations, _everything_. She presses for answers, but I haven't bothered to say one word. I'm not in the mood for talking.

"Kyle, this is important."

"I said that I'm not in the mood for talking."

"Kyle, this is _serious_. I'm only trying to help you, trying to be your friend—"

"You are NOT MY FRIEND!" I suddenly scream out, opposite from the purely silent composition I had earlier. "Don't even TRY IT! Don't SAY THAT WORD! The last time I thought it I collapsed inside myself, let myself totally fucking go, destroyed whatever rational thought I had and set my attention and focus solely on destructive, violent, murderous acts! **DO NOT SAY THAT WORD AROUND ME.**"

I watch her response through my peripheral vision. She looks completely taken aback, and for good reason, too, I suppose.

"Alright, Kyle… Then… don't think of me as a… Just think of me as somebody who is trying to help, alright?"

"You don't care."

She suddenly turns cold. "Alright, then think of me as somebody who is trying to help because it's my JOB."

Now _that_ I can understand. It's what I've been wanting to hear from her. It's her job, so she doesn't care. Now maybe we can get somewhere.

"Now, Kyle. Do your fellow peers treat you like garbage? Do they ignore you? What goes on with them?"

"I can get along fine with most."

"Alright," she says. "And what about that Cartman kid, from earlier? Eric Cartman?"

Oh, yeah, right. He exists. "I still hate him, so no worries there."

"And… Stan Marsh?"

"I THOUGHT he was my best friend."

"What happened?"

"Nothing of your concern."

"Actually, it _is_ of my concern."

I sigh, frustrated. "All right, then it may be some of your concern, but you're not getting it out of me. And just so we can skip the rest of it: No, my family does not abuse me, they treat me just fine. No, people do not give me weird, random, accusing looks as I pass them by. No, I have not had any traumatizing experiences since the last time I was in here. No, everything else is all fine and dandy."

This takes her back a bit, making me think of fresh meat, for some reason.

"Alright… onto the sketchbook, then. There are some detailed things in here. Can you describe how you felt when you wrote all of this out?"

"Um. Pissed off?"

She's got a mask of patience on her face. "Yes, but is there anything beyond that?"

"Nope. Just some nice pure rage."

"May I ask what the cause behind all of this anger is?" she asks, flipping through the sketchbook casually, examining what she pleases.

I snatch the book back, enraged that she's going through my thoughts and ideas as if they aren't anything worthy of delicacy; like they're just random, ordinary compositions of a person's emotions and entire fucking soul. Just because you're doing your job doesn't give you the right to invade all of my privacy and treat me as nothing better than something that simply doesn't exist.

"I'm pissed off because I've lost my best fucking friend. Somebody whose friendship I have valued for a long time, especially recently. And now everything is fucked up, and none of you people can do anything to help it or fix it. This is between Stan and me alone and I doubt it's ever going to reach a resolution, so don't waste your pathetic, miniscule efforts trying. Good day." And with that, I left the room, left the building, and sauntered off to my home.

I didn't expect to find myself taking a detour to Stan's house first, though. And I didn't expect him to be home, gazing down at me through his bedroom window.

Angrily, I pick up a rock, chuck it at the window, and then continue on my own way, ignoring the sound of shattering glass behind me.


	12. Flashback

_What, people? Comparing the amount of reviews between the last chapter and the one before it, do I have to plead in every author's note for you guys to review? Urk. Still, great appreciation to what seem to be my four faithful reviewers. Thanks guys, I love reading your thoughts and insight so much! It really is inspiring for future chapters and ideas! Keep it up, I love reading and responding to your feedback! See how I'm on time with this update? Isn't that awesome?_

_You know, there was a time when I seriously preferred writing about knives as the chosen weapon, but, see… I finally started playing Starfox Assault recently. And holy mother of god. There's a bunch of spider-like enemies there that really, really freaking freak me out, but you have the blaster. And I just shoot like mad. And now I'm in love with futuristic gun technology and oh god I really want to go back to playing that game. It's a wonder I got this written out with that thing sitting right next to me, you know! _

_Anyway. On to this chapter. The content here was actually supposed to appear in the last one, but, ehh, you know, I got distracted in the last one and just had fun with it. Good news here, though. It clears up **one** big event in this fic quite a bit, and it was much more fun to write than I thought it was going to be. It contains the second scene I ever thought up for this fic (a necessity considering that if it never happened I never would've had any place to start at). I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing!_

* * *

Since when is snow red? I'm seething. Some kind of bloodlust. I'd really love to spill somebody, _anybody's_ blood. I am going to be in all sorts of shit when I get home. If only I had a weapon… Something I could just use to crush and kill and maim and destroy. Blow shit up, blow brains out, and that like.

Rage is a powerful weapon, and combined with a killing instinct, things just simply aren't going to go well for anybody. Most, if not all, humans are sadistic in one way or another. It's everywhere around you. Death, suffering, and pain. And something is always causing it, and quite frequently, it's a human. And if you can't beat it, then why not join it? Become a part of the cause, because there will never be a solution, and at least if you're a part of the cause you'll get _something_ productive done.

Sure, people will feel compassion. When some huge natural disaster or blown out of proportion terrorist attack is shown, people go, "Oh my god, that's horrible." Yet people _enjoy_ seeing it. It's all around us. How often does the news display something positive? Not very, and usually when it does, it's way in the back of the report. Terror drags in higher ratings, because people are more interested in terror. It's just so much more fascinating than people standing around, helping each other, giving, and sharing. You can only say, "Oh, that's great!" for so long without losing interest.

Besides, people get over the bad shit eventually, and it's usually good for a laugh or two. There are bigger things in the world to worry about. What difference did the death of some guy who just sat around all day make, anyway? Did he help make the world a better place? Did he do anything useful? No? Then get over it and move on.

It's also great when people get so pissed off that they vow revenge on some part of society and dedicate the rest of their lives to getting back at it. The sheer hypocrisy there is amazing and baffling at the same time. What a waste of time _and_ life. It accomplishes nothing, as the one you're after more than likely doesn't really care that they pissed you off. And then when _you_ die people will only remember you as some angry guy who couldn't get over something.

But me? I don't have much of a good reason. I just don't really care. People are normally selfish, right? And as such they'd rather spend time doing what they find to be entertaining. And as evident from society today, suffering is what's entertaining. So I'm only giving back to the community, right? And in a place where being entertained is so highly valued, it should only make sense that it covers _all_ forms of entertainment, right? Otherwise that would just be contradicting yourself.

Except I haven't really done anything yet, nor has it counted. Which is why I need something other than my hands.

I have always been freaking oppressed and had my views stamped down upon by my elders. Constantly silenced and told that "it doesn't matter, dear," "you're wrong," or _they're_ the ones with the violent murderous life-threatening weapons and _they're_ the ones who get to use them. And sure, they're adequately punished, but I'm a minor. So I can get away with a lot more stuff.

But that dick that initially slashed my arm… it's all his fault. He started it off and it's because he had to go and commit crimes that I, in turn, end up getting the crap end of the stick. So if I ever meet that guy again I swear I'll mutilate his body and make him completely unrecognizable to everybody. And at least I'll be able to get back at _something_, since I doubt I could do anything like that to my "best friend." I hate Stan, too.

I wonder if I could really go through with any of this. That's something I have to find out before I start talking big again, just… If I could honestly and full of conscious thought kill anything in cold blood. _If._ My conscience usually gets the best of me but this time I'm just all screwed up, which is why I've got to find that guy and get my revenge on him in some way. At least then I'll be satisfied, and if I end up going to juvie or prison or whatever, I'll have something to do with my life and my future will be pretty clear to me.

And if I find that I can't kill somebody, if I end up feeling great guilt afterwards, then maybe, just maybe, I can get all of this settled, I can patch things up with Stan, and I can hate Cartman to a less of an extremity. Funny how Kenny has nothing to do with any of this—

Wait. This isn't my house.

This is _Kenny's_. How the hell did I end up over here? My house is in the opposite direction. Is school over yet…? It probably will be by now. I wonder if Kenny's even still around.

…

Because if he is, I've got a huge favour to ask of him.

Not wanting to deal with any parents or siblings, I wander over to the back to about where his room would be, pull the piece of crap window open, and hop right in. That's typically how we go to meet up with him. It's better than walking in on a drunken brawl between his parents, or accidentally setting one off just because you want to see your friend. And I might as well see him, because there's no doubt that whatever punishment I may get when I go back home is going to be extremely severe already.

"Kenny? You here?" I call out. It's not like his family would be able to afford more than one clock, which would naturally be in some place the whole family could have easy access to it; probably the kitchen, so for all I know, school may still be in. Then again, it's not like he would have to stay there. Kenny skips for absolutely no reason all the time.

His door creaks open and there I see my one normal friend in our group of four. No clingy best friend who you do everything with, no "friend" whom you hate and despise. Just a normal friend. Who happens to be poor. And die. A lot. Completely normal.

"Oh, hey, Kyle," says Normal Guy. "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you—"

"I was wandering around and ended up here," I cut him off, shrugging. I'm really not in the mood for pointless chitchat. I have something I need to clarify, and I need Kenny for this.

"Oh," he says simply. Not much of the talker. He likes to hang around in the back scenes too much, content with just following us around and putting a word in here or there. "So then…"

I cut him off again. "Look, Kenny, I know this is going to sound totally out of the blue, but I need a favour from you. A _huge_ favour."

"How huge?"

"… Huge. You see, I—"

"Well why me?"

"If you'd let me get to it—"

Now he's the one cutting me off. "No deal," he says. "I want something in return. Tell me just what the hell happened today."

I sigh. "Kenny, come on. You haven't even heard my favour!"

"I'll take it, now talk."

"But you don't know—"

Kenny stops me there. "Kyle. I've been through all sorts of crap; I'm sure that whatever it is can't be any worse than that." Oh, if only you would let me get to it. "Now come on. What the hell was that about in English?"

It looks like I'm not going to be able to simply do my test and get out. Gah. "Look, um… you know after New Years'?" He nods. "Well, Stan and I spent the day together, and we had a bit of a confession session. He, uh…" Why the fuck am I stuttering around this? Who really cares? I don't. "Stan's a faggot."

Kenny just looks at me. "… So? Kyle, you're open-minded. I don't see why it matters—"

"He's gay for _me_."

Blue eyes and blond hair stops. "Oh, well, uh… That still doesn't explain… You would just accept it and move on, wouldn't you?" Confusion is evident in his expression, and I don't blame him. I'd be confused if I was in his position, too. I wonder how confused Stan was. Is. Still is. Both tenses, really.

"But… that's not the point!" I sputter. "It's… I've been… Kenny, I don't know _what's_ going on with me, but I am so fucking lost and confused… I _need_ this favour from you, so badly! Please!"

He crosses his arms sternly. "No way, dude. I'm not letting you rip me out of something just like that. Finish talking."

Once again, I sigh. "Look, it's just… I… I can't explain it without treading into bad territory, but… I've felt like… Stan is my _best friend_, dude. Best FRIEND. And I don't want that to change, I don't want shit disrupting it, and not now, not now, not now! Not ever but NOT NOW!"

Kenny grabs my shoulders and shakes me. "Dude, Kyle!" he says. "I feel like I'm not getting the full story here. Come on. Finish."

"Look, well, during the whole confession thing, I kinda… I got so messed up and I felt like everything was crashing around with me, and, well, I didn't mean to, but my initial reaction was attacking him. So he fought back. And we fought. And hateful things were said. So I was really pissed, right?" Kenny blinks. "Right. I wanted him to die. Which reminds me, Kenny, that favour—"

"_Finish._"

I am so on edge about this. What if he says no? "Okay, okay," I respond, holding up my hands in defence. "So anyway, I got back, and I was in a really murderous mood, so I sketched out a bunch of gory pictures and made plans for killing people and stuff. Because I was pissed.

"So come school I brought my sketchbook with me because I was still pissed and Stan was there which would make me more pissed. And he just acted so _cocky_ and I _hated_ him for it so I attacked him, and I don't really recall much other than our fight during that. What the hell were you people doing, not breaking it up? Even the teacher?"

Kenny thinks back on the moment. "Well, most of us were too stunned by the initial reaction. Especially because it was _you_, Kyle. You never pull shit like that with an authoritative figure around. And the fact that you were attacking _Stan_ was just so mind blowing. And after we got over the initial shock, both of you were bleeding in some place and were still ferociously going at each other, so I guess you could say that we were just really, really scared. We were scared of getting hurt ourselves so we just didn't move. So teach took the time to see what it had been that had distracted your attention from her lesson, and when you guys finally got worn out… yeah. What happened to you two afterwards?"

I'm getting impatient here. "Kenny," I whine, "my favour? Remember it?"

"We'll get to that later, now talk, damnit!"

Recalling that scene from only a few hours before is getting me even more riled up now. "Stan acted fucking smug, again. The administrative staff treated my thoughts like they were their own to play with and gave me no respect nor privacy. They're all a bunch of little fucks, and I hate them so goddamn much. I wish that they would all just go fucking die. You know what, Kenny? I'm really all for anarchy right now. Sure, it would be too chaotic and a bunch of shit would go down, but really, at least there wouldn't be snooty power head figures around thinking that they can just sift through anything that they damn well please. They just… who do they think they are?"

My friend remains silent. "Well, Ken? You got to hear what you wanted, didn't you?"

"Yeah… I guess," he replies. "Yeah, I did. So, uh, what's your huge favour, Kyle?"

Here goes. "Kenny. You know how you die all of the time, right?"

"Um. Yeah?"

"Yeah. And, um, well, see, there's something I need to find out. I need to know if I could kill somebody."

He remains silent.

"Kenny. Could I…?"

He remains silent, further processing the information in his head. The silence makes me continue to blubber like an idiot.

"I mean, you already die all of the time, right? And it'd be nicer to know if I really could do it or not, and it's not like I would cause any permanent damage, right? I mean you die all the time! You could handle it, right? I mean, Kenny? Kenny?"

"… What?"

"Look, I really, _really_ need to do this… I told you what happened earlier… You owe me!"

Kenny makes some little unintelligent sound. "I… I've got a gun. Typical poor redneck family, right? Yeah. It's in here. I'll let you use it, but, uh… I want to know something else, Kyle. This is kinda big."

"What?"

"I want you to… I want you to tell me what happened a few weeks ago. What got you in the hospital. Tell me about that."

Now this throws _me_ completely off. On one hand, I really need to know if I could kill someone. I mean, this could determine a lot, a _lot_ of things for me. However, on the other hand, this information is threatening to people—

Then again. Who exactly am I trying to protect? My mom is an over-controlling bitch. My dad doesn't do anything. Ike? Whatever. Stan sucks. Cartman sucks. Kenny dies all the time anyway. What do I really have to lose here?

And besides, if I find out that I hold no regrets after murdering someone, then I should be fine for my own life, too. And if not, well, what is there out there, anyway?

I turn and give him direct eye contact. "You're absolutely sure? I mean, it is threatening—"

"You're asking me if I'll let you kill me. I don't think it really matters if it's threatening, right?"

"You're sure you've got a gun?"

"Yes."

"… Alright."

* * *

"What do you want now, fatass?" 

"Jew, shut up. Algebra is fucking gay. Help me out here," came the annoyed and demanding response. I shook my head and pulled my cell phone away from my ear for a second just to glare at it.

"You know, Cartman, you should really work on this stuff _before_ Sunday night."

Groaning comes from the other end. "Kyle, I'm not interested, okay? Just tell me the answer to this and I'll leave you alone, alright? I've got better things to do here than waste my time talking to some greedy grubbing snake, got it?"

"You're not going to get _anywhere_ if you talk to me like that, Cartman," I replied, teeth clenched. "Give me one good reason as to why I should bother helping you.

The other end is silent.

"Exactly. Good luck, fatboy," I said, and about to shut the thing, but a screaming, "wait, wait!" stopped me from doing so.

Cartman took a deep breath and continued. "Okay, Kyle, look, I'm sorry, okay?"

"No you're not."

"Kyle, come on! Please?"

"**No**, Cartman! Here's the answer: I won't help you! Got it?"

Hissing sounds came from the other end, more than likely from clenched teeth. "Yeah, alright, you stupid fucking Jew. You pull that. So sorry for keeping you away from butt sex with Stan. I'm sure you'll be able to make up for the lost time, you worthless prick."

"What the fuck, Cartman?" I shouted into the phone, nostrils flaring at that remark. "What the—why—fuck you, you asshole! Go to hell!"

It was almost possible to just _see_ the smirk Cartman had on his face. "Yeah, right. I'm not going to hell, I'm not a gay little homosexual, and at least my people didn't kill Jesus!"

"Jesus _was_ a Jew, you retard!"

"Mmhmm, right, Kyle. But since you're here, I think there's something else you should know. You're completely fucking worthless, dude. Your parents hate you and your mom is a stupid bitch, and your brother is a fucking Canadian. Stan's your gay little homo lover but I'm sure that one day soon he'll come to his senses and turn straight, like normal people. You, on the other hand, are simply fucked for life. You wouldn't be able to defend yourself from a spit wad—"

"Shut the fuck up, Cartman! This is a load of crap! What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the truth, dumbass!" the reply came scorching back, and it enraged me. Sure, it was evident that the things Cartman was saying was a load of crap, but then he continued pouring the ammunition on me. "You think you're going to make it anywhere in life? Wrong! Nobody's going to want to hire some stupid Jew, one who can't even stand up for himself and lets people walk all over him! Hey, Kyle, can I come over? I feel like stepping on somebody's worthless face right now, and you fill the position perfectly! Maybe afterwards you could kill yourself and stop being a waste of life!"

"Cartman, you—" And then he hung up. Just like that. He insulted me, pulled the most retarded things out of his ass, and didn't even let me retaliate; evidently because what I would have to say would actually make _sense_.

And although I should have been used to that shit by then, and by now, I wasn't and I'm not. I sat there stupidly on my bed for a bit before shutting my phone and pacing around in my room. I thought of every insult that came to mind, just swearing, swearing, cussing and punching inanimate objects at random. Finally I got bored of doing all that and exited my room, slamming the door hard, and stomping down the stairs, still cursing.

Ike approached me when I got to the bottom. "Kyle, wha—"

"Ike," I interrupted him harshly, voice level barely above a whisper, "I'm only going to say this once, and I'm completely serious here. Fuck. Off. **_Now._**" Gawking, my little brother did so and walked backwards, out into the living room, unsure of what he was to do next. That's when my mother came up.

"Kyle, boobaleh," she started; calm enough, "what's wrong? Come here, and tell me all ab—"

Fists clenched and voice ready to rip out, I shouted, "NO! Fuck off! I'm not, I repeat, **not** in the fucking mood for this sort of—I'm so—fuck! Fuck I'm pissed! You're not helping matters, shut up! Go away, leave me alone, and fuck off!"

"KYLE!" she shouted. "You, mister, march right back up to your room! I'll be up there in a minute to deal with you—"

I growled at this point. People don't growl, but I sure did. And starting out in a quiet voice that slowly but surely gained volume as I went along, I replied, "No, and make me, you stupid fucking BITCHCUNT!" And with that, I slammed the door, figuring that being outside in the cold weather and away from my family would help me cool off and calm down. I knew that then I'd have to do a lot of talking to get my way out of this, but considering the anti-Semitic things Cartman was saying, I was sure that I'd be understood.

I'm not really all that sure what I did out there, I just know that I wandered around quite a bit, kicking at the snow and collapsing into it every now and then. I was really fucking pissed off, and I wanted to let the world now, so I did scream out a few times and lash out at a couple of trees in my way, going to the point of ripping off a branch from one of them and throwing it at the others.

However, it didn't take too long for me to calm down out of exhaustion. Sweating, I looked around at my surroundings, and found the town easily visible below me, the few lights remaining (it _was_ late at night) looking only like tiny little glimmers instead of the bright obnoxious man-made contraptions that they really are. I kicked up a bit more snow and then flopped down, leaning my back against one evergreen. There were quite a few in the area.

I took complete note of my surroundings as I rested. I was definitely up on one of the taller foothills, the mountains looking much, much taller than the way they do from South Park. There were trees scattered around, but for the most part, the area was still pretty open. Deep snow covered the ground; hell, from my sitting position, knees brought upright, it almost consumed them. However, standing up, it was just a bit deeper than ankle-deep. I must have been pretty tired, flopping down that low. The night sky was pitch black, with plenty of stars visible in it. Small towns don't provide much in the way of light pollution. I gazed up at the sky and the stars as I rested and calmed down, the physical exertion of my outburst catching up to me.

As my heavy breathing became less heavy, and my senses returned to me, they became more acute and picked something up. I could feel my hair standing on end, and my hearing came back. Initially all that I had heard was some garbled crap, but a piercing shriek came and shattered my calmness that I had just obtained. Had I had the energy, I would've stood up straight in shock. Rather, I settled for leaning further back into the evergreen's trunk and cowering as I heard more talking.

"Wh—wh—"

"And now, it's your turn. How does it feel to stare death in the face?" Something about this voice sounded familiar, but I'm not too sure why…

"It—I—err…"

"Oh, no matter." Again, I just couldn't place my finger on it, and I still can't. "It's not like whatever you say will have any effect, now will it?"

At this point I peeked around from the tree's edge. There were two men standing there, both in shadows. One was so terrified you could see the beads of sweat on him, despite his own physical features not being visible. The other held a knife. The same knife that was used to slash _my _arm. I watched and my eyes widened as without further hesitation, the knife-wielding silhouette plunged the weapon straight into the other's gut. They were still no more than shadows; however, the blood that spurted and flowed out was clear enough. It sprayed and drained into the snow, turning it to a pink. The murderer's silhouette was no longer very perfect in itself, specked with red all over the place, as the other simply fell down.

It was gruesome as it all flowed out in a dark red mess, seeping, seeping, until gradually it stopped coming. The murderer's silhouette smiled. I couldn't feel the strength to turn away, my eyes were glued on the spot, and I was thoroughly disturbed. I still had absolutely no idea of what was going on, who had just been killed, or who was just killing people. All that I knew was that this was a bad situation and I was hyperventilating. Shakily I stood up, using the evergreen for support, and still totally incredulous to the fact that I had been so close to that scene and yet I was still okay.

I thought that I was being quiet, but as I moved out of the way, I was suddenly grabbed. _Oh, shit,_ I thought. _Oh, shit._ _This can't be good._ It's amazing that my thoughts were that calm at that time considering the circumstances, but I was probably panicking too much to even be able to form panicky thoughts. My neck had been taken a hold of.

"Not so fast, kid," whispered the killer's voice. "What did you see?"

I decided that keeping silent would be the best move, but that didn't seem to be the case as the already bloodied knife dug into my neck, threatening to break the skin. "I asked you a question."

"… I… I saw… blood. Lots of blood…" I was standing stock-still, eyes wide with fear, and wishing to god that I was back at home simply swearing at Cartman.

The knife broke the skin and I could feel a bit of hot blood oozing out. "Be specific, kid."

"I saw you kill that one guy!" I shouted out, and the knife pressed further.

"Not. So. _Loud_," the voice hissed, and it took me all the strength I had to _not_ wince so I wouldn't make the wound any worse. "Only one, you say?"

"Yes, but I did hear a piercing scream before that… like… THI—" Instantly a bloodied hand covered my mouth. I was planning on screaming to hopefully get some attention, somebody, _anybody_, because my life was sorely being threatened here, but I was silenced. Pissed about this, I started struggling, biting into the hand that was covering my mouth and kicking out with my legs. The knife dug further into my neck.

"Keep that up, kid, and you won't have a head on your shoulders anymore." The searing white-hot pain made me stop instantly, and I forced my body to relax itself. "Good boy. Now, you pose a problem…"

My mouth still covered, all I could do was look up fearfully. The murderer's features were still so unclear to me, it was extremely frustrating. I was so desperate to just get out of there, but it wasn't going to happen, and I was already bleeding with a nice gash in a fairly vital area…

"Tell you what, kid," the voice started up again, and I wanted to do nothing more than rip mine out from my throat. It was impossible under the circumstances, though. "I'll let you off with a warning. You can't tell anybody what you saw here, anybody, you understand? Nothing about what you saw, what you heard. If you do, I'll come after your family and friends, and anybody you tell this too. I'll cut them up so bad and torture them so much that they die from pain. And here's a little sample; mind you, this is hardly anything."

And with that, he whirled me around and slashed my left arm. He started at about halfway between my shoulder and my elbow and slid it down, neat, clean, and fast, to my wrist. Blood gushed out immediately, and with that, he pushed me, sending me off down the hill. I finally got the chance to scream from all of the pain and fear before my face plunged down into the snow. Blood flew from both my neck and arm, I know this much, leaving a trail, and I heard somebody trudging their way through the snow at a high speed in the opposite direction. I rolled down that hill, painfully, painfully conscious for a fair amount of time. I passed out when I was still rolling, though, most likely from loss of blood, although I may have hit a rock or something. I really don't know, how could I? Anyway, from that point on, I had no idea what happened. I guess somebody found me, but the next thing that I knew, I was hallucinating about the moment in my mind, and when I came to, I was in the hospital.

* * *

"And that's it, Kenny… That's it. No backing out now. You owe me this much at least. Please, Ken." 

My friend stares blankly at me. "You mean… that was it? That's what got this whole thing started? _That's_ why you were in the hospital?"

"Yeah. That's why." Just thinking about it sends shivers down my spine. "Kenny, I haven't spoken a word of it, I've barely even _thought_ of that incident since it happened. Please. Give me the gun. I told you, now it's time for you to fulfill your part of the bargain."

Kenny looks sceptical, though. "But… how would he know if you told anyone? Would he be monitoring you night and day? What?"

"I… I don't know! Maybe! But the whole thing in itself was enough to make me believe him, and I just didn't want to go through with any possible consequences." I take a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the area where the blood stains are on my hat. "Now Kenny. Give me the gun."

"You seem a bit too eager for this…"

"I need to find out, Ken. I have to know if I can kill somebody just like that. You'll come back soon enough. Just let me do it."

He hesitates even further. "I… I really don't know about this, man… Kyle… I have a bad feeling about this."

I growl. "Kenny. You fucking owe me. Get the freaking gun. You said you were sure before I told you what happened around a month ago, where's that confidence now?"

I glare at him until Kenny stands up from his crappy little mattress where we had been seated, and walks over to his dresser. Reaching underneath it, he pulls it out. "H-here, Kyle. Let's just get this over with." He sits back down next to me, and I stand up, walking further out, and aiming it at him. My hands shake and I don't feel as certain about this any more, but I know that it has to be done.

Aiming it for right between his eyes, I look at my friend's face, and notice the blankness remaining there. Locking eyes with him, I pull the trigger, and hit a bullseye. He flops back immediately from the force of the blow and blood seeps through, reminding me all too much of the murder I had witnessed (_especially_ for having just told it for the first time… ever), except instead of the gut, it's the head.

And as I look upon the site, I know that I'm fucked. Tucking the gun into my pocket, I hop out of the window again, leaving the death site as is. I know that I should at least keep some kind of weapon handy with me now, because killing Kenny felt right. It felt good.

I don't know what I'm going to do now, but two things remain certain.

Oh my god, I killed Kenny.

I feel like such a bastard.

… And feeling like a bastard feels good.


	13. Roving

_Thank you so much, everyone who reviews! You end up giving me new ideas (or allowing me to progress on ones already thought up) and your insight rocks. I appreciate it, really._

_Good news here is that I've finally figured out where I'm going with this again, so this is easier for me to write now. It takes quite a bit out of me to actually get started, but once I do, it's so much fun to write. _

_And in the personal note, the few people whom I've noticed to be amazed by the fact that I'm only 14 no longer get to do that, 'cause my birthday was on the 22nd, so I'm 15 now. Oh, and I go back to school on September 5th. New school, and a high academic program, so I may not be able to update on my preferred once-every-two-weeks thing, but I'll try to. I'm starting to have way too much fun with this to let it just drop, and I'm happy to see others still liking it, too! You make me smile and squee inside, you do._

* * *

I'm really not too sure as to where I'm supposed to go right now. Home would be the most obvious choice, but really, it's not going to end up with any good results. I don't even know what my punishment is supposed to be for _school_, and my mom is way tougher than school. And I've got a weapon with me now, so really… There's no telling what I'd end up doing. On the other hand, all of my stuff is there, my life, my way of getting food and shelter. There isn't really anywhere else I can go to. Stan would naturally be my first choice, but… he sucks. So fuck him. Then Kenny, but, well, he's poor, and also dead. I'm pretty sure that his parents wouldn't appreciate housing their son's killer (even if I'm just one of many), especially because they can barely afford to house themselves. Cartman… I… 

Christ, is Cartman really my last choice? Butters would be easy enough to manipulate into it, but then he'd decide that that would get him grounded.

Well, at least Cartman can supply plenty of food. Maybe he'd stop being such a big fatass, but, well, there isn't really any way he'd ever let me in. Although I guess it really wouldn't matter if his mom does. But then I'd have to give some kind of explanation, wouldn't I? Crap.

… I could just stay out in the wilderness, but really, uh, South Park out during the hardcore winter months, alone, without much other means of shelter or warmth isn't a very good idea. I'm hardly street smart as it is, how the hell would I be _woods_ smart? I mean, christ.

I walk up to my house and cautiously open the door, one hand in my pocket, fingering the gun's handle, just in case of… I don't know what. I'm just feeling kinda worried about what I'm supposed to do now. I was capable of killing Kenny, but, well, he'll come back, and besides, it's just Kenny. I don't know if I could kill my own flesh and blood, or somebody who actually will die and stay dead. I guess if I was more impulsive…

"Kyle!"

"… Mom?" I shudder inwardly. She looks furious.

"Kyle."

"… What?"

"Go to your room. You, sir, are grounded until college! It's nothing for you but studying, and if you—" I find myself tightening my hold around the gun's handle—"get anything less than perfect, anything less than 100 percent, well, I don't know what I'll do yet, but you can bet your tuchus that it'll be big, mister! I am so disappointed in you, I mean, _really_. Kyle, you know better than this, what were you thinking? Have I taught you nothing? You know you're better than this—"

And she continues to ramble on and on and on. I'm somehow better than this? How? Because I was brought up in a "respectful" home? Because I had a nice, Jewish family? Because there was absolutely nothing that could have possibly gone wrong? Yeah, funny how the teen years screw up the perfect life, huh? Then you get romantic crap, and worse yet, especially common in today's society, _sexuality_. I don't know if I even want _anyone_ anymore. I think Red has totally put me off of girls, 'cause based on her words, I can actually remember bits and pieces of it, and it nauseates me to think of it. Yes, I'm _so_ much better than "this."

Fuck, I couldn't go to Red's, either. God knows _what_ would happen.

Then again, we do have a project to work on together, and there's a bigger chance I'll be able to stay with her than with Cartman. Her parents would probably freak out at the notion, but, then again, they weren't even home that entire day I first stayed with her. Who's to say how often they're at home in general?

Coming back to the real world, I realize that my mom is still running her mouth off about something, so I start heading up to my room. I take the stereotypical teen-running-away-act, and dump my backpack off of my shoulders, tossing in whatever I find that may be of assistance into it. It's a long jump to the ground, but hey, I've been through worse.

I wonder if I'm really doing the right thing as I sneak around by clinging to my home's outer walls and then making my way off to Red's. She'll let me stay there, no doubt, but there's no telling what else she may do. And besides, is running away really the right move? I could easily get the house to myself with none the wiser, but, well, then again, there wouldn't be anyone to provide for me, and I wouldn't be able to do that very well myself, especially with school going on. Staying there destroys my freedom, but, then again, wouldn't hiding out in Red's house do the same? Unless she somehow manages to work something out with her parents, I'll still be cooped up and restricted. At the very least, though, my mom won't think of checking Red's place… She'd think of Stan's, but we're fighting, so who knows what he would say (or who even cares? It's not like it's going to affect anything. He already destroyed our friendship by being gay for me. Maybe he'll get over it, but even then, I doubt it'll be possible to go back to anything).

Really, though, it seems that my only course right now is manipulation and taking advantage of my "girlfriend." And then I can continue to go to school all normal-like, serve out any detentions, whatever, and life can just carry on, and if somebody pisses me off enough I'll simply blow their brains out. I've got no problem with it. What's humanity, anyway? This works to my advantage, so I should do it.

I find myself at Red's place, and look around. There's no car out in front… What the hell do her parents do for a living, anyway? Inhaling some air, I raise my fist and knock on the front door. I hear her voice, a nice little "Coming!" before the hinges allow the structure to move. Her face turns to a wide grin once she sees and recognizes me. "Oh, Kyle!" she cries out, hugging me in a sudden movement. "What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

"I… Yeah, I'm fine, I just, well… You know that whole mess in English class?" She nods. "Yeah, I need a good place to stay out at… You know my mom and her ways, right?" I ask, giving a pathetic little laugh, but she nods once again. She pulls me in and hugs me again. "Would it be possible for me to spend time here until I figure out what else I can do…?"

She pulls away from me, and her grin appears to be stretching her face. "Oh, Kyle, of course you can! My parents are hardly home these days, so it'll be fine, and when they are here, you can just hide up in my room. It's not like anybody other than me goes there! I'm so happy to see you here again, you know," her smile becomes less broad, and she flutters her eyelashes at me. I mentally murder myself.

_You are going to die here, Kyle. This is going to be unbearable._ I nervously smile back.

"Hey," I suddenly burst out, "you know, we still, uh, have that, uh, English… thing… novella, project to work on. Since I'm here, why don't we…?"

She rolls her eyes. "Kyle, come on. Come up to my room with me! We can talk there."

… Rooms are personal sanctuaries for one to get a chance to spend time alone, with themselves, doing whatever they please, and other people don't have the right to interrupt it. I mean… who knows what things would end up happening in there? It's just a room, sure, but, still. It's the principle of the whole thing. I… don't really wanna get into anything too… deep.

But I follow her anyway, 'cause it seems like that's what I'll have to do. Maybe I'm just being overly paranoid, after all. Just 'cause it's something private doesn't mean that it'll lead to anything. Besides, well, the least I can do for someone who just promised to house me for however long, especially because I don't know just how much she's risking for me here. Maybe a little, maybe a lot. And I doubt she'll tell me, because she seems to be so into me, that she'll just wave it off as nothing.

We get up there and she leads me in, still smiling. Red walks over to her bed, sits down, and pats the spot next to her. "C'mere, Kyle!"

Seriously, now. The bed? That's where people typically, uh. And recalling what she said to Annie earlier, um, wow. I'm really not… I mean, she's a pretty girl and all, but I don't want to get into anything like… Jesus, I don't know. But I sit anyway.

"So, Red," I start off again, "about that assignment—"

"Kyle, look at me." I turn my head to gaze directly at hers. "Loosen up a bit. That assignment isn't due for a long time, who cares about it right now?"

"I just want to get it done, so we don't have to, uh, worry about it. Besides, it'll be a perfect excuse as to why I'm here if anyone catches us, and, uh, we'll at least have a bit more done to make it seem like a plausible excuse."

She shakes her head and grabs my hand with her own, holding the one free one. "No, Kyle. Y'know, around the school, before today at least… Do you know what people thought of you?"

"That I'm fuckbuddies with Stan?" Just the thought alone is puke-worthy. I wanted a friend, goddamnit. This is such a high level of betrayal. How could he have done that to me? Seriously, and this is the guy with whom I've shared most of the best parts of my life… I can still hardly believe it. Bastard.

Red sighs. "That's not the only thing, you know. Do you _do_ anything, or are you just some kind of lame, boring robot? I mean, do you even do anything other than school work? People think that you're such a big loser, and, well… It's kind of… I _know_ you can't possibly be that way, Kyle. Not after that one day, a few weeks ago… Where have you really even been all that time?"

"I've, uh. Had some. Uh. … Things."

"Whatever. Look, I mean, if we're together, we should see each other more—"

I was right. She _did_ think that we were an item. "Wait, wait," I interrupt in a cry of outburst, "We're _together_? Since when?"

"Since that night! You don't just do something like _that_ and then go on your own separate way."

"… Oh."

Red sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears. "We need to see each other more, _and_, well, if we could fix your image, that would be a bit better for both of us. Make you a bit more popular, y'know? And part of doing that will involve much, much less on school work. I know you're really smart and all, but can't you put if off a bit more, be more like a normal teenager, go out and do things?"

"I… I do go out and do things! It just hasn't been with you!"

"Kyle, you can't just hang out with the same three people for a dozen years. Get out, meet more people, and party, y'know? It'll be fun!"

I was having plenty of fun before things fucked up for me. It was really awesome. Stan was such a great friend, and, well, there was always Cartman to vent some anger on. Why did this have to happen?

I still have that gun, though. Has my hand even left the pocket? Jesus Christ, it hasn't. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do now. I shouldn't be here, I really shouldn't.

"I was having plenty of fun before," I finally tell her, after that pause of silence when my thoughts suddenly drifted off elsewhere.

"Yeah, that may be, but Kyle, how fun could it be? I mean… you attacked your best friend just a few hours ago. How is that fun? Seriously, Kyle," she says, and pauses for a second to give me a quick kiss. I find myself involuntarily shuddering. "Can you do this? Just for me? It'll improve your social status, and you'll be seen as less of a gay loser who always hangs out with a fat kid and white trash."

"What's so wrong with… Well, not Cartman, but Kenny? What's so awful about hanging out with them? They're my friends, and I've been together with them longer than I have with you, or anyone else." This all is just making me realize how important Stan is. If only he'd get over the gayness, and then if we could just go back to being friends, I might be able to make it through everything else, and put this whole thing behind me.

Red squeezes my hand. "Can't you do this for me? You won't know if don't try!"

"And can't you accept me for me? I'm 'with' you, why do you have to try to force changes on me, to get me into whatever crowd you're talking about? I have my small select group of friends, and I'd like to stay that way. If you want to stick together, that's fine, but you have to be able to respect me and what I want, too." This whole thing is making me really start to miss Stan. I feel that burning hatred leaving already, which is good. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet. Is our friendship really that strong? I don't feel bad about it, I just want to go make amends, or do _something_ to get away from all this. Maybe killing Kenny like that simply helped me blow off some steam, and I don't really have to do anything else. Before this it took Stan to calm me down from some psychotic rage, but I guess Kenny works too. He's a good friend; a great guy. And Red is trying to tell me that he sucks? What the fuck? "I love my friends, and it'd be really awesome if you didn't badmouth them."

"… Okay, okay," she sighs, but it's obvious enough to me that it's forced and fake. But hey, as long as she complies, I might just be able to comply with whatever else she dishes out for me. "But still, can you try coming out with me sometime?"

"Of course. Yeah, I can work that. But in the mean time, how about that English thing…"

She gives me a bit of a moan, but complies. "Just a little bit, just make a little progress," is all I say. I already feel better from just thinking some things through. This is so much nicer.

* * *

We got a bit done. She started making some more moves on me. I, for some reason, got uncomfortable, and when her parents arrived back home, she freaked out and said that I'd have to leave, lest that something bad happens. She said that she didn't want it like this, but that we could get together sometime soon, under a better setting. I'm not sure if I really want that happen, though. I know there was what I said before, but it's highly likely that they were false promises… right? Seriously, something about all of that just didn't feel right to me. It's so picture-perfect and… boring, and, well… I'm not even sure here. All I know is that it didn't feel as good as killing Kenny. 

So now I'm heading over to Cartman's. I was thinking of going to Stan's instead, but I don't think I should do that just yet. Just because I feel a bit better about the whole thing doesn't mean that I'm really ready to get back together with the fag. So I'm heading over to the fat fag instead. At the very least, I'll be able to relieve some steam by kicking his ass.

I knock on the door, and Cartman opens it immediately. He looks pissed off, and looking over his shoulder, I can see my mom and his discussing something. Probably me and my behaviour, or him and his behaviour, or that his disgusting, cruel behaviour somehow influenced my newfound crazy behaviour. Either way, he's pissed off.

"_Come here,_" he hisses at me, grabbing my wrist and dragging me up to his own room as quickly as he can, obviously hoping to avoid catching our mothers' attentions. We get there successfully and he closes the door. "What the hell do you want, Jew?"

I gulp a bit nervously. "It's just that I—uh, I… No, uh, I—"

"It's all about you, isn't it?" the fatty sneers at me. "Typical greedy, selfish Jew, aren't you, Kyle?" Cartman kicks out at the air. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you _insane_ or something?" He continues rambling on, apparently not having heard my small little 'yes.' "Speaking of that, what the _hell_ was that earlier today? It's fucking dark out now, and you're still acting totally whacked out, even more than _usual_! Come on, Jewfag, what's the deal? Aren't you supposed to be gay for Stan," he hisses out, and the fact that he's supposed to be gay makes it all the funnier, but mentally, I'm not sure if I should laugh or simply be unresponsive and neutral. Normally I'd just laugh. Anyone else would.

"… And _not_ beat him up anywhere other than the ass? Actually, speaking of, who's the bitch? Fagboy or Fagjew? Or do you two take turns being the bitch, the two of you just so—" I can only just stand there unresponsive for so long without getting totally enraged. This doesn't even feel like simple teasing anymore, it's some kind of loathing rage. Well, what the hell do _I_ do? I punch him in the face. I'm debating if I should do it again or not, which is also rather uncharacteristic of me (although I guess that I should come to be expecting this by now), as normally I'd have already pinned him to the ground and be beating him up. But fatass merely stands there, his lip quivering a bit, but he manages to subside that and blurts out, "Kyle, I could _so_ kick your ass right now, okay."

I roll my eyes. What was I thinking? What sort of ungodly thought made me decide that staying here with _him_ would even work at all? Maybe I'll just go and sleep out in the snow. But then he decides to continue on with all his words.

"Jesus, you really aren't worth the life you have, are you? You're even ungrateful for it, what with cutting yourself and totally slashing your arm like that! But I guess you just _had_ to do it, you emo wussy prick. You wanted to feel the pain because it feels _so good_ to you, doesn't it?" Um. "Or was it one of those gay 'cry for attention' things? It's probably both, isn't it? 'cause you just _have_ to have the attention on _you_, because you're a self-centered no-good Jew. And you're one of those Goth fags, too, I knew it! I mean, sure, it was obvious enough before, but _really_. Goddamn Kyle, you sure do suck. I don't know why I've wasted so much of my life hanging out with _you_ and your gay little homo buddy, and that poor piece of trash."

"Uh, Cartman?"

He ignores me. "What did I do to deserve people who suck as much as you? What, Kyle? What?"

"Cartman."

"And now I've got nothing to go on and nothing to do because I've wasted my entire life so far hanging out with you assholes. Goddamn, I hate you guys."

"Cartman!"

"Why couldn't you have done it right and killed yourself proper, Kyle, huh? Why not? Didn't you ever stop to think that the world would be a better place without you—"

He stops his incessant, hateful rambling and collapses to the ground once I kick him in the balls. He splutters and stares up at me in disbelief. "Yeah, you wanted to get down there, didn't you—" Another kick right in that area shuts him up.

I lean down in to the other boy, who is obviously in great pain. "Let me get in a fucking word, fatass, or I'll fucking castrate you." I only get a meek stare in return.

"What the _hell_ is your problem? What did I ever do to you?" I demand, close to just spitting in his face. All Cartman does is glare at the floor. He sits himself up awkwardly, and then _he's_ the one who ends up doing the spitting. On me. I pull a face in disgust. "Seriously, what?"

"I fucking hate your guts," he mumbles into his jacket. This causes me to roll my eyes once again.

"Aren't you supposed to be in love with me?"

"I don't _want_ to be, you asshole. Fuck you!" I seriously don't know what the hell is wrong with him, really. I don't know why I'm wasting my time here, either. All he's done so far is ramble on and on about hate towards me, and I still expect to be able to live here with him? Although, for that matter, where _am_ I going to be staying? What the hell was my mom doing here? I hope she didn't see me when I came in, 'cause then I'll really end up getting it.

I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. I don't understand why I haven't totally killed Cartman yet. Something's been holding me back here and it doesn't make any sense. I wish that this had never, ever happened so, _so_ badly. What went wrong? Where along the line did I snap, and why was that? And—

"So what the hell is your mom doing here, anyway?"

I snap out of my thoughts, and shrug. "Hell if I know. She just must be overly pissy, or something… 'cause apparently now I'm 'better than… something.'"

Cartman gives me such a cocky smirk. "Yeah, like you're better than anything."

"Shut the hell up, Cartman."

"No, seriously!" he protests, and suddenly my hand is out of my pocket and the barrel of the gun right up near his face before he can say anything more. He's suddenly quiet, and his eyes grow wide with obvious fear, a bit of surprise mixed in there, too. I press it up against him.

"Okay, listen to me, fatass. If I had had this with me earlier today when Stan and I were fighting, you can bet your ass I'd have used it. Now consider the obvious facts: I like Stan _way_ more than I like you. All you've been doing to me is pissing me off and insulting me, and don't think that I don't have the guts to do this right here and now, _because I do_." I press my finger a bit closer on the trigger. "So what're you gonna do now, dickface?"

He doesn't do anything. Neither of us do, we just stand stock still, and there isn't any sound at all, aside from the small bits of our mothers' voices that we manage to catch. "Kyle," he slowly croaks out, and I pull away.

"Man, I don't even know what I'm doing here."

"What?"

"I know I can't stay at home until my mom loosens up and becomes a bit more realistic with her punishments and ideals for a son, because I obviously don't fit her criteria. And sad as it is, you're actually the only one who I'd really have any kind of luck with," I say, deciding that Red doesn't count, and therefore, there isn't any real need to mention her. "And we both already hate each other's guts, and if you even make just _one_ wrong move I would _so_ kick your ass and kill you."

"Then maybe you should stay outside, in the snow and the cold? That'd be twice I'd have sent you out there, and who knows what would happen the second time?"

I sigh. "Man, I don't even know why I hang around you. I'm out of here. Fuck you, Cartman, I'm really not going to be bothered to expend any more of my energy on you, you sad excuse for a human being."

"Your mom's down there. I don't think you want to leave that way."

My fists clench and I feel my body go stiff and rigid out of anger. "So what the hell do you expect me to do? Spend more time up here arguing pointlessly with you and continuing to get nowhere?"

"Sounds like fun to me!" he chirps, and in a sudden movement I'm sure he didn't expect, because I didn't, I whirl the gun back out and fire a shot. Fortunately for Cartman, because it was so sudden and unpredicted, my aim was totally off, and it only hits his foot. He cries out in shock and curses, attempting to pull the bullet out and bandage his foot up with his sock. I stand there, a bit dumbstruck at what I had just done, and for some reason, I feel a bit of pain in my heart.

"Fucking asshole!" Cartman cries out, holding his foot in his hands and clenching it tight in pain. "What the fuck, Kyle?"

It's surprising enough that there isn't any sudden sound of feet running up the steps from our moms, because I'm sure that they'd have had to have heard that. Maybe Ms. Cartman just convinced my mom that it was nothing or something, I don't know, and frankly, as long as they don't come up here, I don't care. I look down at my "friend's" foot, and watch as the sock starts turning red from the blood soaking through. Cartman continues to curse through clenched teeth, and I want to smack him so bad.

I kneel down and lean my face in close to his. "Listen, fatass, if I had been thinking more clearly, that _would_ have killed you," I inform him, prodding my finger into his squishy gut. It's obvious that he's trying to hold the tears in; he doesn't want to cry in front of _me_. He's succeeding, too, and lets go of his foot with one hand so he can cheekily flip me the bird.

I go with the new favourite of punching him in the face once again.

Imagine my surprise when I find tongue in my mouth instead, and mine in his, caused by my body deciding to have acted out on a mind's impulse I wasn't even aware that I had.


	14. Scabbing

_I don't have the slightest bit of regret going on now for not updating last week and taking three weeks instead, because if I had finished it all last week, it would not have turned out like this, and the end to this chapter had me so rushed and panicked myself that it was such a giddy relief to write out the very end of it._

_School's been going fine. It's easy and boring enough. It's just that, when time came for me to write last weekend, I was into it at first but then I just… didn't feel like writing. At all. I was hit with a surge of inspiration tonight, though, and partial credit would go to Indiana Beach Bum's Fighting the Truth__ but after I finished over there Futurama was on, so I watched that, and wasn't nearly as inspired as I had been the half hour before, but still inspired enough to decide to freaking write. I read over what I had accomplished last week, thinking it was gonna be a piece of crap, but instead loving it, and furthering the inspiration. As I continued to write, it grew and grew, and I can walk away from this chapter saying that I am **very** pleased with myself._

_And on the note of the bit of the "current event parody" that you could say is present in this chapter, I didn't intend for it to be that way. I just couldn't think of anything else, and I spent a whole, like, five minutes trying to. _

_But anyway. Yeah. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I had a great time writing it. Much thanks to all of my lovely reviewers, because you guys are amazing._

* * *

With a sudden gasp and control back over myself, I pull back immediately. The force, combined with the shock and surprise, causes me to stumble backwards and into the wall. I gasp and breathe heavily, swooning a tad, with sheer horror mixed with trace amounts of giddiness going through my mind. I allow myself to slide down, where I put a hand to my heart. I can feel it beating quickly. My sight starts to fade out on me – it's been a while.

Basically, the reaction is similar to, if not exactly the same as, my initial reaction when Cartman first told me he was crushing and lusting after me. It's an awful, completely disgusting feeling, but knowing that I was the one who ended up taking the initiative… or did I? I thought I was bringing a fist to the fat face. I must have lapsed out of there. If I could see Cartman's expression right now, I might be able to learn something from it, but I don't see anything at all. My heart continues to thud and I feel like I'm going to pass out.

That might be because I've stopped breathing.

Oh SHIT, the things that CPR involves… I slowly gain control of myself and my breathing comes back, and after a quick little bit of hyperventilation, eases down, and the world floods back to my eyes, colours and shapes and textures and tones and everything. And I see Cartman, fiddling with his sock, still clenching onto his foot as the blood continues to bleed through.

I sure do hope I didn't do anything too bad. I… That wasn't right, that was a horrible thing to do, why did I do it, why, why, why? I… really need to get a grip on myself, on reality. I can't just… oh, jesus.

I feel the tears start to leak through, and I squeeze my eyes tight, throwing my head in an intense downwards gaze at the softly carpeted floor. I take a deep, shuddering breath and just lie there, letting my grasp on the weapon slip loose and letting it fall softly to the ground. My body shakes with sobs a bit, and I just feel like dying. Cartman makes some kind of noise and I just barely open my eyes and look up, the lids still mostly closed down. The world is blurry and I don't feel like being a part of it. I'm not… _too_ depressed about shooting Cartman, then going after him in the more sexual way, it's just that I don't know what I'm doing with myself anymore, my chest feels tight, and my foot has fallen asleep, and my throat is totally sore, and I just feel so weak, useless, and like I have no control over myself, like I'm not me anymore and I'm just some empty, soulless shell. My speculations, running through the snow in the woods earlier on, about souls and myself not having one, were totally right. I feel so empty and disgusting and weak.

Cartman softly pokes me. I glance down at his foot, and he seems to be satisfied enough with the job he's done, bandaging it up. Sure, I can easily see the dark red that has soaked through, the pinker spots surrounding it, the bits of splatter dotting and decorating his carpet, and then there's that one pool sitting right there, his foot swimming in it. He notices my intense gaze on it and cautiously prods me again, and I just slump forwards, and his shocked hands aren't shocked enough to catch me.

"Kyle?" he tries, and I open my eyes in full.

"… Yeah?" I ask, feeling dazed. It hardly occurs to me that he's been acting nice to me, but it's there, ringing in the back of my mind ever so slightly.

"Are you… gonna look at something else, other than the blood?" he tries again, tentatively. I let one of my arms fall limp and lazily draw my finger into the pool and draw stupid little patterns in it.

"Dunno," I answer, feeling intrigued and fascinated.

A quick glance upwards shows his face twisting in a bit of disgust, and he carefully sets me upright against his bed. My eyes don't leave the pool of blood, and I shed my jacket. It's a t-shirt underneath, exposing the full extent of my crudely bandaged wound, basically strips of white, now soaked through red, cloth, unseen by anyone else for quite some time now. Cartman looks over it, and whispers out, "Did I do that?"

"_You_ didn't," I snap back, unsure of what I should do with him now, physically. "But you sure did piss me off." I once again glance down at the poorly constructed bandage, and let my eyes wash over the whole thing, taking in every little detail: the uneven folds, the overlapping, the wave of red and light pink and the few specks there are in some abnormal places, considering the wound's placement. "Wanna see it?"

"I'm looking at it right now," he says, and gives me a bit of a confusing glance. Not only for what happened to my arm, but that little bit of… tongue action we shared a few moments ago. I shake my head, and a bit of my annoying hair escapes from my hat and falls into my eyes. I leave it where it is.

"No, I mean… With the—oh, nevermind." I breathe in deeply and lean back, pressing a hand to my head and rubbing my temples. He falls back with me and turns his head to face me, but I continue to gaze forward, soullessly, feeling totally cold, empty, and weak.

"Kyle?"

I continue to stare forward. There's so much to think about but my mind just stays blank. If I could remain like this forever, unmoving and doing absolutely nothing, and just lose my mind and never think again, and just _be_, then I think I'd be happy.

Then again, how can happiness really even exist if you're not even consciously aware of it? How can you feel _anything_ if you aren't even consciously aware of _yourself_?

"Kyle? We… we have to talk, dude. Jew?"

I slump over in his direction and lie my head on his shoulder, and close my eyes again, murmuring, "Can we just stay like this?"

"What?" I'm asked, apparently having been unheard; apparently having been too quiet.

"Stay like this," I repeat, only louder, at a more audible tone. "I just want to remain like this. Cartman, you're the only guy I've got right now, in the world, can we freeze time and just stay like this forever?"

"… No. Fag," he says, and shakes his shoulder, but I remain limp and he doesn't succeed in shaking me off. "What are you talking about, you only have me? What about Stan?"

I feel so morbid and useless. "No, I love you," I breathe out, failing to gather up the strength to speak any louder.

It's a rare occurrence, to leave Cartman totally speechless, but anyone who succeeds should be damn proud in being able to do so. He chokes on his breath, and after a long pause, he finally manages to say, "But what about _Stan_? Isn't he your best friend? Kyle, I'm supposed to hate you. It's some gay physical attraction and nothing more."

I simply ignore those words and disbelieve them. Cartman finally gets up, and I fall over, my head narrowly missing the moist, bloodied stain on the carpet. He pushes himself up onto his bed. "Kyle, seriously, what do you think is going to happen? If we keep this up we'll only be fooling ourselves. You're out of it, dude, snap back into reality. I hate you, and you hate me, and you're completely out of your mind. Go see Stan. He's your boyfriend."

"He is _not_," I growl, slowly pushing myself up and off of the floor, feeling dizzy and nauseated now, too.

"Like it or not, Kyle, all you have to do is look on the past. It doesn't take a genius to see that you and Stan were made for each other. You're not going to hate him forever; I doubt you ever hated him to begin with."

"_I do,_" I seethe. He snorts.

"Yeah. Right. And someday Kenny will die and stay dead."

"He might," I mumble, thinking back to earlier. Oh, god, what if I did end up delivering the final blow to him? I would… I feel sick, dizzy, nauseated, I can't do anything, I'm totally worthless, a screw up, a fuck up. My mom can never accept me for branching out onto my own ideas and not following her role of perfection, and the greatest friend I ever had in the world, I've completely ditched. I still feel some anger for him, and I wonder what he feels about me now. I wonder if he's snapped and gone into some kind of psychosis like I have. I wonder if he's been thinking gruesome thoughts, and just wishing to kill me in pure cold blood. I wonder if he wants to cause me a world of hurt. I wonder if I've completely torn his heart out.

I could literally do it. I did it to Henrietta, and all I had was a stupid little crush on her. Best friend? I could go way worse.

Cartman starts to speak up again. "Kyle, just back off," he says, "and don't try to push this any further. You know it will never happen; I know that it won't. Calm the fuck down and get back into your right mind, and then I'll be there to give you a hard time again. But Jesus Christ, dude, whatever. You're out of your mind and you need Stan to balance you out and calm you down."

He really is right, and that I'm just clinging to the first thing that I can, but… There's no way I can go back to Stan, he might really want to have it out for me, or I might've just caused something way, way worse to effect his entire persona and well-being. But I can remember, a few weeks ago, very recently after I first got cut and slashed, being in the hallways of the school, and hallucinating about it happening to me again, shoving the situation back into my whole mind, and how Stan was able to calm me down and make me feel relaxed again. And there really isn't much telling if anybody else came out and tried to stop me. I have no recollection. I just remember the whole incident happening to me again, at a way worse degree than when I told it to Kenny, and Stan, _Stan_ was able to snap me out of it.

… And then Stan, _Stan_ had to go and ruin the perfect friendship. Back in the hospital, the whole mess that started Stan's crush… He told me that, right? He told me that. And thinking back to the way he acted, just sitting in there, staring ahead blankly at the wall, so empty and blank. And then _I'm_ feeling empty and blank right now. I let my eyes rove around again, unsure of the course of action I should take. Cartman's probably right. We probably _were_ made for each other. Maybe all of our actions just mirror the other's, like we have this own special connection that only the two of us will ever understand, ever.

And yet, the thought of that almost makes me want to hurl, and I settle my stomach by turning my gaze back to the deep blood stain soaking in through. I settle and take a deep breath, glancing at my "bandages," and then back at Cartman again. I want to kiss him again, so I rise to my full height, and it suddenly washes over me how little I've grown. Is Cartman still fat? Sure, but he's also tall, at the least. God damn, I maybe only go up to… Well, his nose, if I'm lucky. In addition to the weight, he's still got quite a bit of height on me. It's embarrassing. I have never been so consciously aware of this before.

I divert my eyes off to the door, and then the window. The window is my easiest means of escape. I could just jump right out of it, roll, and be on my merry way to I really don't know what. So I lean in and try to steal another kiss from fat boy, and he returns it, thoroughly contradicting what he was just lecturing me on.

I feel so retarded, useless, and utterly out of it and confused beyond all means, but that's okay because I'm happy. I'm an awful person and a horrible friend, and I don't really deserve anything, but fuck if I'm not going to take it. I'm a human being, and humans are naturally selfish. I'm just willing to accept that fact and embrace it. Cartman falls back onto his bed, and I fall over on top of him, hugging him and then rolling over, taking in a deep breath and feeling, just… Into him. Into Cartman. In a totally serious way. That was something nobody who knows me would ever have expected. _I _don't even expect it. But… I do, and it's there, and I want something big to happen tonight.

_Big_, however, is _not_ pushing me right off of the bed, which is exactly what Cartman does. I roll off and crash down hard onto the floor, landing face-first into the still-present and not yet totally absorbed pool of blood. My body automatically stiffens and then relaxes as I push myself out of it, coughing some up and failing to comprehend the fact that it should be wiped off. I'm sure the face-plant into the carpet must've left at least some blood stains, too. Beautiful.

… And I don't use the word in the sarcastic stance, but I do glance up at Cartman questioningly.

"Kyle, I don't want this," he says, plain and simple. "I've done more to you that I would dare to do to anyone else tonight. You heard my honest thoughts, so now, please do screw off."

"… Where am I supposed to go to?" I ask, the words taking more time than usual to register in my mind.

"I don't care. Go home. Patch things up, you fucking retard," he snaps, and I give him one more quick kiss before getting up and slowly opening the door. I close it behind me, softly, and peer over the banister's edge, but I can't get a good enough view of the kitchen to see my mom or his mom. I can hear their voices, though, but it's just barely over the sounds of my own heart. I shove my hands into my pockets, and the right one is met with the touch of cold metal. I grin, and I relax. I start to slowly tread my way down the stairs, carefully, and I hear the door to Cartman's room softly open and close, with minor squeaking, and I look up to see him peering over the banister.

I finish my trek and walk over to where I'm in plain view from the kitchen doorway. My mom spots me.

"Kyle!" she cries out, sounding relieved, pissed, and possibly a bit shocked. She slides her chair back and gets up. Mrs. Cartman turns around, but doesn't get up otherwise. "Kyle, what are you doing here?"

I remain silent, opting to stare back at her instead, completely free of visible emotion. Inside, I'm way more pissed than she'll ever be.

"Kyle? What's that on your face? Is that… blood?" she asks, suddenly taking on a more concerned tone. I grind my teeth together, but not so hard that it's audible or visible or anything. "Bubbie, are you okay?" she asks. My fists clench so tight that my fingernails dig into my hands and form little punctures. I can feel the blood start to come through just a bit. "Answer me this minute, young man!" she says, slightly more demanding. I close my eyes and point my head downwards, towards the floor, and a deep sigh causes my body to shudder. I feel slightly cold. I hear a very, very soft thump at the bottom of the stairs, and open my eyes just barely to see my jacket lying there. I had completely forgotten about it.

"Young man, you are in a _world_ of trouble. I suggest you cooperate with me, this instant," she starts off again, more stern now. "You have… The name to our family! Your… your heritage! Where do you go off, thinking that you can get away with such atrocious things as this? Not even just what you did at your school, at home, to me, your own mother! Honour thy mother and thy father! Do you not pay attention to any of the basic laws anymore? We _should_ have forced you to have a Bar Mitzvah! You might have learned something! I don't even know why you ended up not having one! Your brother is, Kyle! Ike is! Ike actually does things right, and he isn't even truly mine. Is this the message you're sending me, mister? Every other kid in the world behaves perfectly, but mine, _mine_ is a screw up? You can't run away, and hide in the woods every time something you don't want to do comes up, Kyle! You just can't! Now you have some _explaining_ to do, mister."

I just take in all of the abuse, doing a better job of absorbing it than Cartman's carpet does with a good amount of blood. I don't really care, though. Keeping my eyes still closed, and head still lowered, reach up on the side of my hat, and feel the blood stains on the side of it. Those two lines: one of mine, and one of Henrietta's. And I crack my eyes open ever-so-slightly, and glance down at my impaled finger. I never bothered to bandage it, and it doesn't seem like anybody ever questioned it. I become consciously aware of my mom's, Cartman's, and Cartman's mom's eyes focused on me; the center of attention for three people, and I rise up my finger, right index, and show them.

Then I lower the collar of my shirt to show off the scabbing of the wound on my neck. It's deeper than I remember. Nobody seems to have ever caught that one. If anybody watching has any kind of a reaction, I don't notice it.

And then I do something that I probably should have done earlier, and whip off the crude bandage from my left arm. The soggy, disgusting cloth comes right off, and I don't even have to look at my arm to know what's there. I hold it up for her to see. The massive slash: from wrist to halfway between my shoulder and elbow. It's crusted over, tips completely blackened from the sheer amount of blood that had clotted there, the rest of it a dark red, with bits of blood stains encrusted on my skin, all wrapped up in a huge mess of scabbing, the bumps and textures feeling very fine and detailed to me. The removal of the bandage causes a small bit to open up again, and blood starts to trickle down my arm. I show off all three wounds to my mom.

"_This_ is what happens when you bash your son endlessly, put him down all the time, and convince him all along the way that he's worthless, a failure, and has never done anything right or good. _This_ is what happens." There's no trace amount of anger in my voice. It's just a stable blankness. I turn around and pick up my jacket, slinging it over my shoulder. "Let's go home."

* * *

Everything was silent on the way back and continues to remain silent now. On the ride back home, I finally managed to see what time it was: 2:00 A.M. A nice, late night, but I still feel blank and void of emotion, albeit with a strong enough presence of rage only being suppressed by the blankness of everything about me right now.

When we got back, I got myself changed, and took a good look at myself in the mirror. My face only had small bits of a crimson-colour on it; some on my forehead, around my eyes, and the bridge of my nose, and I didn't bother attempting to wash it off. My impaled finger doesn't seem to be doing too well in the healing process, because at close glance I can still see a bit of the bone. My neck wound is as present as ever, and I'm not even going to bother trying to hide it from people now. I can see the mark.

As for my arm, small amounts of blood still bleed down it, but not really enough for me to actually give a damn. I trace the pattern of it down my finger, noting how straight it is, and therefore, how quickly it must have been done. It's long and depressing, but it's still fine.

So now I'm here, lying in my bed, snuggled down into the warm blankets. My window is open and it's freezing out in the bland January weather, but I have no intentions of closing it. It gives me a reason to dig deep down and curl right up, and I softly let my eyes close, still pissed, but content replacing the blank.

And suddenly my eyes just snap open, and I quietly get up, and don a hoodie. I sift through some crap of mine and find the gun, still untouched and having been fired only twice thus far by me, and then I quietly make my way downstairs and outside. I greedily suck in the cold, stinging weather, feeling immediately at home, and then let my legs guide wherever they want to go to. The wind is piercing and the temperature must be in the negatives, at least, but it's okay. The tips of my fingers are already starting to turn blue, but I don't feel any numbness. I'm barefoot, like when escaping the hospital. I close my eyes and start to run.

By the time I open my eyes again, I'm at the school, in the middle of a hallway, and it's daylight. Nobody is taking any notice of me. I'm standing in the middle of an empty hallway, and a quick glance at the clock confirms the reason why: it's class time, but only just the end of a period. The bell suddenly rings, a piercing sound, and the doors open up, and I shoot at them immediately.

I don't see details anymore, but I'm not on my way to blindness. It's a massive blur, but one thing remains clear throughout my pivot of shots: the blood flowing smoothly from heart-piercings, pouring out in a great rush of dark red and fragmented bits of organs, and even bone if I'm lucky. My targets are accurate throughout the whole way, despite the whole fact that it seems to be at total random. The smallest of psychotic grins creeps up onto my face, and I make no sound, just pointing and shooting and relishing in the whole thing, feeling absolutely ecstatic with _glee_, killing everything with a bullet right through to the heart that I see. And it feels so _wonderful_.

And then my giddy high either comes crashing down or shooting up after I feel a bullet graze my right arm, and another wound starts to open up and blood gushes out. I honestly can't tell if that's making me feel better or worse. And naturally, I fire right back, but it's somehow dodged, and then pure terror strikes me once I realize that I'm completely out of ammo, and I have no idea how I was even able to survive this long.

And then it's nothing more than total, searing pain as a killing blow is struck, and the bullet bites right through my stomach. I fall back, crashing down to the floor, which is, by now, covered with so much blood and bone shards and squishy bits of vital organs that no part of it _isn't_ covered. I fall back, leaving an impression down in, with a slight spasm, leaving some kind of a blood angel pattern, but I'm no angel. And with the last bit of my conscious mind, fading fast, with so much pain taking over, I think, _No, I don't want this, no, no, no_, with sheer terror gripping me in a cold, hard grip of death. And then it's all over, and everything is peaceful and calm, and I'm absolutely motherfucking **TERRIFIED**.

I shoot up from the bed, not even drenched in a sweat as typical with a nightmare, no scream, and in a rush of pure adrenaline, I throw the blankets off of me, and leap straight out of my window, rolling as I hit the snow-covered ground to prevent further harm. I dash back and forth a bit, unsure of what to do exactly, before reality sets in on me and I take off at a mad dash, weaving through the neighbourhood and town I know so well from so many misadventures here, and I know **exactly** where I want, _need_ to go.

My heart pounds and thuds so loudly I'm shocked that it hasn't exploded yet, already worked up from that dream, that _nightmare_, with so much death and destruction and it all catching up to me, me, me, and that searing, awful pain, and the intense fear of getting hurt so badly and getting brutally murdered, landing back and taking my final rest in a sea of former humans' lives. And it all just came crashing down, right on me, scaring me out of my wits and I just run and run and run and run until I finally realize that I've been going the wrong way for god knows how long I've even been running. It's a chaotic state in my mind and I know where I need to go, I know, I know, I know, but I can't, for the life of me, remember it. I used to go there _all the time_ I should remember it! I know this!

I skid on the ice, barefoot, cutting up my feet slightly and leaving a bit of a red tint to follow my slippery path, and it's COLD AS FUCK out here but I know where I'm going now, I know where I need to go, I know where I am and how much farther there is left, and I just continue this run in hysterics, my mind completely unable to focus, not even much of a "go, go, go, go" ringing in the back of my head. Well, not enough of one to seriously acknowledge it and care all that much. I just run right through, horrified as to what happened, everything forgotten except for the basic, deep memories embedded into my mind, and what just transpired in the same place, my mind, except those were fictional events. My heart continues to pound, my increasing speed not helping matters. I was never really one much for athletics: small, wiry, and just pretty much weak enough in general, but jesus am I _running_.

I finally reach my destinations, and bounding up the steps, I rapidly shake the door knob; however, the damn thing is locked. Leaping down and running around to the other side, I nearly hop the fence, but rather, crash into it, and then I skid back, in just a panicked state as ever, but much, _much_ more sure of myself now, and that everything's going to be totally okay, it was all just a dream, I'm not dead, I'm not lying in an ocean of former human matter, nothing incredibly bad has happened to me, and everything else is completely normal. I slide open the basement window and snatch the key lying in an obscure, dark corner of the sill. It's in a location you'd never find unless you knew it was there.

I run back to the front, hop up the steps from the side, and stub my toe in a misjudged landing. It stings, but then again, what part of me doesn't? My lips are blue and my arm and neck crusted with scabs, _who gives a fuck_? Only ONE PERSON, **ONE PERSON**, that's all I know, and I shove the key into the lock and wriggle it around, the damn thing frozen by the cold weather so much that it would have taken me way, way longer to actually open the goddamn thing if I hadn't been in such a rush as to get it the fuck open _now_. I throw the door right open and burst inside, dropping the key, and not bothering to close it, letting the cold air sift in through it. I don't care right now. I really don't.

Rational nearly completely escaped from my mind, I recall the countless times that I've been here, and make my way up the stairs, jumping up them, rather, taking several at a time, but still managing to land quietly and failing to wake anybody up. I run down to one of the last doors at the end of the hallway, and throw it open as well. My eyes scan over the whole place, and then I see it, him, exactly who I'm looking for, lying in his bed, his back to me, covered in the blankets. His window is shut and his room is in as much of a state of messiness as mine, and I can tell that he's still asleep from the way the subtle movements of his indicate that he's breathing steadily and normally.

I'm a sweaty, disgusting mess, covered in scabs and blood stains; my face, my neck, my arm, my finger. There's no bullet graze on my right arm, however, and I'm safe from that. It was just a nightmare, it wasn't real, but I'm still scared, so I finally jump over a pile of clutter and onto the bed's occupant, hugging him so tightly, crying out his name over and over and over and over, like he's the only one who can save me from this whole thing. His eyes shoot open and he looks a tad fearful, not to mention shocked as hell, but he slowly gets up and hugs me back, confusion written all over his face, but I ignore, and continue to hug him, tears flowing down my cheeks, bawling like a pathetic little fucking baby, but he's the only one I can really turn to in this whole motherfucking world, and for the love of GOD, I'm going to cling to him like there's no end, because I know he can and will help me and as long as I'm near him things like this won't ever happen again. My body shakes with sobs, and I choke on his name again, and confused, he sits up and hugs me back, pure bewilderment written all over his face, and perhaps a bit of tension, too, some terseness, but I don't feel it and just continue to sob and hug and cling, and say his name over, and over, and over, and over, like it's the greatest word in the whole motherfucking universe.

"Stan! Stan, Stan, Stan, Stan, Stan!"


	15. Stan and Kyle Redux

_I'm beeeaaackkk! (The Entity was on here while I was writing this. I like that episode. Kyle's cousin Kyle is amazing.) _

_I am so, so sorry for taking as long as I did to update this. Really, I am. I blame it all on that goddamn picture I decided to do. I shouldn't have done it, I'm so damn slow at drawing and I'm not even as pleased with it as I should be. Damn if it didn't help me start off this chapter, though. Here's the link, if you wanna see (remember to remove spaces): http:// www. deviantart. com/ deviation/ 42858991/. Yeah… Not really worth the delay. _

_At the very least, though, I've been thinking about this fic a whole lot. It's probably been sometime around a full year now since I came up with the idea for this, and I'm really, really amazed that I still have interest in it, but damn I do. Came up with a new ending that's gonna stretch this thing out a bit longer, too. Should be good times. I have had too much fun writing this. _

_So yeah, if I still have any readers left, please, do enjoy. And if I still have any **reviewers** left, I'll appreciate it so much if you review. I swear I'll get back to more frequent updates now, I mean, I'm all settled into school and shit. I'll go back to the bi-weeklies, hecks; I'll make it weeklies if I can manage. Thanks for bearing through with me. Enjoy!_

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Starting off here. I sob and dig my face into his chest. If there's any point in which I've truly, _truly_ snapped, it's right here and right now. I feel the gentle feel of his arms, his hands, slowly leave me. Disturbed and panicked, I whip my head up to see him staring off, a focused look in his eyes. But I can't tell what they're focused on.

Uncertain of what to do now, I turn myself around and curl up into a bit of a ball, leaning back against my best friend. My best friend. _My_ best friend. I let my eyelids drop down a bit and just lean back up against him. I'm uncertain if I'm smiling right now or not. It feels so nice to be back up with him, just pressed up right against him; but at the same time, I'm still totally freaked. And this in itself might not even be real. Oh, dear god. My expression would be neutral except for the fact that… I don't know, I don't know if I can be neutral at this point. Everything's just all so twisted up for me. My facial expression follows. I glance back up at Stan.

He lightly places his hand on my shoulder, but I can tell he isn't here. Now that my heart rate has slowed down quite a bit, I'm suddenly more aware of things around me. Hypersensitive to my senses, I guess. Particularly the ones relating to Stan. He's like, this shining, clear beacon to me. I feel everything so wrapped up in uncertainty and cliché as it sounds, darkness, but… He isn't. Well. Part of him is. But, but not the parts that matter. Not _him_. I'm just, I'm just so worried as to why I might be getting so cold a reaction. I didn't… I didn't do anything to him, did I?

His eyes are staring at a point somewhere, but I can't identify that point. It's, it's like, it's almost like that time in the hospital. Holy shit, how long ago was that now? A few weeks? Even that long? But his facial expression, it's just… It's also one of uncertainty. And some confusion. Why is he—well, I guess I can understand that. I mean. I'd probably be freaked if he just did the same to me. But he seems so… tensed up. I can feel it. He's rigid and stiff. But his hand that's resting on my shoulder, it isn't. At all. It's just… lightly touching me, as if it wasn't at all. Just, just barely.

But, but it's him. And that's what matters. I'm not even sure what's going on with me right now. I wonder what's running through Stan's head about me. I must be a mess. My face is all bloodstained, I can feel it. With… Cartman's, yeah, Cartman's blood. And what about Kenny's? His, too? It's all over me, and then there's my own to compete with them both. I can feel that big slash bleeding again. I can feel it all trickling down. I can feel that small hole that's still been left in my right index finger. But I can't feel my cut neck at all. If I didn't know it was there, then… I just wouldn't, there's no indication of it to me. It's leaning against Stan.

I vaguely note that we're both still in our clothes. Jesus christ, what time is it? 3:00 AM. 3:00 A.M. on a Tuesday morning. And normally you don't just… You're not dressed at this time. His hoodie has so many creases in it. Come to think of it, I'm sure mine does, too. Why would Stan have been sleeping in his clothes? You don't just, you don't just forget to change out or anything. I mean, I did, but I've been totally emotionally distressed lately. I have a good reason for that. But why would Stan be…? It's snowing outside.

I… I don't care. All that matters right now is that I'm here, with him, right now, and I'm still feeling so, so much better, despite the lingering thoughts of that nightmare in my head. I find it hilarious how it means nothing to me to be hurting other people, but when _I_ get kicked… It throws me off completely. I guess this is a bit of a wake up call. I'm not invincible. I sigh contentedly, and lean further back into Stan, letting my eyelids fall a bit more. And then he kicks me right off of his bed, and I nearly give out a high-pitched yelp of both pain and surprise upon hitting the ground, except his fast reflexes stop me as Stan suddenly places his hand over my mouth and lets me fall down with a soft thud. He goes down with a larger one.

"_What the hell, Kyle?_" he hisses out at me. "_What the hell do you think you're doing?_"

This baffles me. We've always done things like this. One of us gets freaked, we run for the other one. It's just… it's just the way things have been. So I bring him up on that. "What, what do you mean, Stan?" I ask, quietly – but not a hiss like his. I don't think I could do that.

"You think this is fucking _funny_, man?" he demands, spitting it out. "Do you… Do you _like_ to fuck around with me? God, don't you have anything better to do with your time, like plotting the death of everyone else in the world?"

Just when I thought I had calmed down. I feel more tears welling up. "Stan, what? I—"

"You _what_?" he hisses again. "Stan, I love fucking with you! Stan, things can't be the exact way _I_ want them to be, so I'm going to ruin everything else! Hey, Stan, you're my best friend! Oh, wait, no you're not! I hate you now, because you're a flaming faggot! Well, _what_, _Kyle_? _What_ is it?"

I sit there, completely stunned, with barely any decent thought passing through my head. "Stan, I—"

"Stan! Stan Stan Stan Stan Stan!" Stan snaps back at me. "Is that all you can fucking say, Kyle? Get the fuck off, man!" I notice that his eyes are watering up, too, but he looks _pissed_. His eyebrows are totally furrowed and crashing down into his eyes, they're narrowed into these tiny little slits and Stan looks like he's ready to snap my neck off. Instead, he reaches out in a sudden movement and digs his fingernails right into my shoulders. I cry out in the sudden shock of pain and feeling of betrayal. He acknowledges the cry with a forceful shove backwards, then pulling me back right away again. "Does it hurt, Kyle? Does it?"

I refuse to acknowledge his question. Instead I just shut myself off and let myself fall limp. This only seems to enrage him even more, and he shakes me even more forcefully. He doesn't say anything, though; he just sort of growls through his teeth a bit and his nails dig in deeper and deeper.

And finally I've had enough. I don't care how emotionally hurt I may be, but I will _not_ let myself be thrown about like a rag doll. Especially not by my _best friend_, the one whom I turn to when I'm in times of great need, and the one who turns to me. And _not without a damn explanation_. I suddenly switch back on, and combat his frustrated growling with a fully blown-out roar, achieved only through my regular usage of the Hebrew letter _chet_. There's no letter for it in English, but it's a really forced, growling sound that comes from right within your throat. And I can roar back at him with it. And I do just that. He lets go of me. My shoulders are stinging with pain and I feel really, really dizzy from all of that being tossed about. My head's thrown off and I'm not capable of thinking as clearly as I should be, but I'm still able to bitch him out. I'm a Jew. It's in my blood. There you go, Cartman.

"Now _wait just a goddamned minute here, Stan_," I snarl back at him, my features taking on an ugly twist. Combined with all the blood on my face, you've got my eyebrows narrowing down, even further than his, I'm sure, and I think my eye teeth are showing. I sit up on my knees, looming over him. "I am _not_ going to let you just _toss me around_ like that and sit here and do _nothing_ about it. What the _fuck_ is your problem. I—I'm your best friend for god's sake! We, we look out for each other," I start to stutter. I need to shake that off. "And I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing, but try it again and I will kick your ass _so bad_. Now _explain_. Please, do _share_ with me what the hell crawled up your ass."

Stan scoffs, folding his arms across his chest in a forceful, violent, quick manner. "Quit playing dumb, Kyle. I'm not a fucking moron like you'd like to assume I am. Now get the fuck out of here before I make you."

I roll my eyes. "Is that a threat?"

He stands up to his full height, looming over _me_ now. That's the downside. I'm the smallest one of the group. I have grown the absolute least. Stan's the next shortest, and even he's still a good deal taller than me: this all becomes painfully evident to me when I also stand up. "Why yes, I do believe it is," he replies.

This is the other problem. We all have our different levels of rage. Mine looms up constantly. I get so _infuriated_ over the littlest things, and I take it out on fist fights with anyone. Small and scrappy, that's what I am, and it usually works. Because usually, most other people don't reach out to the same level of anger that I do. But Stan is a different story.

Stan is usually successful in keeping his anger under control. It takes an unrealistic amount of pushing to get to him, whereas with me, one little tap will send me over the edge. But when Stan is pissed, Stan is _pissed_. We've been generally well-matched in the past, but tonight is different. I've been exhausted and drained this whole night. I've run out all around this town this whole night. I've barely had any real moment's rest. I've cut myself up and hurt myself even further than before, both physically, mentally, _and _emotionally. I killed Kenny. I went after Cartman I both shot him _and_ kissed him.

I'm… I'm just way, way too drained for this.

I'm sent back, reeling, from a direct punch from Stan that nailed me square in the jaw. I stumble backwards and crash into the wall, where I do nothing more than slouch down. It's finally all caught up to me. I can't do this. I can act tough all I want, but the fact of the matter is that it's not going to get me anywhere. I don't have tons of energy to begin with. I'm not sure what the hell it is in me that makes me think that after all I've been through today, I can take Stan on again.

So I just slouch down, and push myself into the wall, curling up into a ball. At first I hide my head, but then I stop and peak out. And the sight I see out from my little window is painful, because there's Stan, and I have no idea why he's so mad at me. I just can't figure it out. I don't understand why. But I can't do anything about this anymore.

I want to pass out so, so badly – I really, really do – but I can't. I just can't. I'm completely drained and exhausted yet fully conscious. My stomach churns at this, and I feel sharp, stinging pains in my gut. My head is pounding and my wounds all over burn like hell. I stare up into Stan's face, and then I just look down; away; and resign myself. There's nobody else I would do that for.

I just don't understand…

I feel more sharp, jabbing pains coming at me, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight. The pain doesn't just blend in together after a while. Each one is still as strong as the last. It all makes as big an impact as the last. But I don't care anymore. Honestly, I don't even know why Stan is acting this way. He's my best friend. I'd do anything for him. Even if it was impractical and would only succeed in hurting me in the process. I'd do it if he told me to. And if I'm not going to have him, then I don't see what I have left for me. So I resign. I've thrown in the towel.

Suddenly, I feel my head being grabbed and thrust to look at my best friend. I still keep my eyes shut tight, though. I can feel the hot breath on my face, but I don't move – maybe just a flinch here and there.

"Look at me, Kyle," I'm suddenly demanded of. I shake my head as well as I can. "Kyle." I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter. " **Ky.**"

"… Why?" I choke out, trying to turn my head back away. But he doesn't let me, and so I crack my eyes open slightly. And I'm met right up front with Stan's face, his eyes completely level with mine. And they seem so hard and cold in the first instant, but once I crack my own open, his seem to shatter almost instantly.

"… Kyle?" Stan chokes out. I close my eyes and turn away again.

"Stan, what did I _do_?" I ask, tears welling up again.

He falls back, away from me. But that's all he does. After a bit of a pause, he opens up his mouth again, asking, "Do you… Do you honestly, _honestly_ not know?"

"No!"

"_Promise_ you're not lying?"

"Stan!" I shout out, sobbing. I can't take this anymore.

I think he believes me. Stan calmly states, "You—we fought. You hated me."

"Why would I ever hate you?" I ask incredulously. He remains suspiciously silent. "Stan?" I look up at him, finally opening my eyes all the way and facing him directly. I shift my sore body around so that I'm head-on with him. "Stan?" I ask again.

"I confessed to you," he says, bluntly, after a while.

"Confessed what?"

"… That I loved you. As _more_ than friends, Kyle. You know. The faggy way."

I sit back and remain silent, processing this in my head. But once he says the word "faggy," I'm snapped out of it. I remember what happened now. And I suddenly feel this boiling rage inside of me. He was the person that I counted on to be my best friend, and he was the one that ruined it all for me. The one that got me in this huge fucking mess to begin with. My fists clench and my nails dig into my skin. And then he just went and betrayed me yet again. Just now. He really sent me over the edge here, didn't he? What if _he_ was the one who totally slashed my arm up, huh? What if it was all Stan? That wouldn't be too surprising, now would it? Yeah, you know what? It all fits. It was all Stan's fault. This has been some kind of clever plot by him to just end up fucking me over in the end. So I get up and attack him.

Stan jumps up, too, managing to block some of my violence. "_Shit!_" he cries out. "Shit, Kyle! What the hell?"

"Hey, you wanna fucking go?" I shout back out at him. "You wanna ruin my whole life? Is that it? I've got news for you, Stan: If you honestly think you can push me around and control me like that, then you've _won_! You happy? If your goal was to get me to totally motherfucking snap, then you've succeeded! Congratu-fucking-lations!" And with that I just leap on him.

We're both sweaty and disgusting. This is probably giving Stan a boner right now, I'd bet. He'd probably be envisioning us doing it instead of at each other's throat. God fucking damn. I _trusted_ this guy to this extent? It's like a repeat of our fight in school, but it's more intense now, even if the two of us are so much more tired.

"What the fuck, Kyle?" Stan shouts out. "What is _wrong_ with you? This isn't you!"

"And you aren't you, either! You are not a faggot!" I shout back at him, kicking and clawing.

"_Yes I am!_" he cries back. "_Yes I am, Kyle! I am!_" He manages to knee me in the balls and with that it's over; I'm down on my side and in great pain.

"You fucking pervert!" I hiss at him. "You'd go for just that area, wouldn't you, you goddamned homosexual! Jesus christ dude, have you no decen—"

I'm cut off by a vicious slap to the face. A _vicious_ slap. It's even worse than what Kenny can dish out. And suddenly Stan's down at my side, and he's talking to me. "You are better than this, Kyle," he states, point-blank. "You are. You know you are. Something's up and I want you to tell me _everything_."

"What's to tell?" I snap back, still in great pain. "This has been you all along, hasn't it? Right from the start! It's _you_ who did this to me!" I shout out, lifting my left arm. The sleeve falls back to reveal the ugly scar and scabbing. "You're the one who did that! Why you fucking little sonofabi—"

Another slap to the face cuts me off. "Kyle, shut the fuck up," Stan snaps. "You're acting irrational. Calm down. You know it wasn't me who did that. Why are you accusing me of so much, when it was you who ran here? You were the one who came here and grabbed me, sobbing up a pathetic storm and repeating my name over and over. Why did you have so much faith in me back then, and yet now you don't?"

I fall silent and stay that way. He's right. He's so right.

"Stan, I—"

"_What,_" he snaps back.

"… That's exactly it!" I exclaim. "That's exactly it! I came to you in such a fucked up state, and what did I get in return? I got brutally _attacked_ and _beaten_! By the one whom I had just put so much trust in! What the fuck did you _expect_?"

"What did _I_ expect?" retorts Stan. "What did _you_ expect? We fought so much today. We were at each other's throats before you even came here, and then suddenly you burst into my room, pounce on me in my sleep, crying my name over and over? What was I supposed to think? Last impression I had of you was that you hated me! That you despised my guts and wanted me _dead_! What did you think would happen?"

"I didn't remember any of that, I swear!" I cry out.

He sighs. "Dude, what the hell would make you forget all _that_?"

I cringe as it all floods back to my mind. No wonder it was enough to severely freak me out to the point of forgetting. It really was… Why did I dream that, anyway? What's wrong with me?

"Kyle?" Stan asks again, softly.

I decided to tell him right from the start, skipping the killing Kenny part. Stan doesn't need to know about that. _Nobody_ does. I can't believe that this has all happened in the span of less than twenty-four hours. I ponder over the events, wrapping them around in my mind, trying to think of the best and most logical way to go out about this. Instead I stupidly burst out:

"I kissed Cartman."

Stan's eyes narrow almost immediately. "You _what_?" he hisses out. "Oh, sure, your best friend you want to murder for being gay for you, but your worst enemy you jump on right away?" He almost chokes. "What the fucking _hell_, Kyle."

"I… I don't know!" I stutter out in my defence. "Honestly! I swear it! I don't!" Oh, god, I am such a retard. "It just… it kind of… I'm sure there's something behind it, but he… I mean, um. Well. I guess he _did_ come out to me first…"

"But it's fucking _Cartman_!" Stan seethes. His teeth are grinding together. Oh god, Stan's jealous. I didn't think he'd react that way.

"I… I _know_ it's fucking Cartman!" I retort. "Don't you think I know that? It just, it just kind of… happened! I don't know! He was pissing me off—"

"He was pissing you off, so you decided that it would make perfect sense to _kiss Cartman_?" Stan yells out.

I stutter even more in my response. "W-well, y-you know, he… I… It's just that, uh… Well… I mean, I _did_ shoot him first! Yeah!"

"So what, Cartman's dead and you're a fucking homosexual necrophiliac now?" Oh lord, he's absolutely furious.

"_What?_" I cry out in shock. "No! I, my aim sucked! It hit his _foot_!"

"But you still kissed him."

"Stan, would you fucking let that part _go_ already? Jesus christ, dude!"

Stan falls silent, but he's still seething. You can tell. Any dumbshit could tell. It's not a very big accomplishment. You could probably see it for miles around; jesus christ he's going off that pretty bad. He's just sitting there, totally stiff and rigid and pissed off. Honestly it's scaring me, so when he opens his mouth again to speak, it gives my heart a jump and I nearly end up freaking out again. "So then what?"

"He… He told me no, it wouldn't work between the two of us. Cartman and I. But he said that the two of us were made for each other. … You and I."

Stan is really grinding his teeth together now. "You have got to be joking," he spits out. "No fucking way. And let me guess. You still want him."

I stay silent.

"You _do_!" Stan cries out. "Oh, god!"

This time it's my turn to snap Stan out of it, so I slap him across the face. Hard. "Goddamnit Stan, snap out of it, will you! This isn't the end of the world!" The gears in my mind are turning like mad, processing my thoughts. "Calm down, dude!"

"… Do you still hate me?" he asks after an awkward silence.

I sigh and look down to the ground. "After Cartman said that, and I ended up going home… About an hour ago… No, wait, longer than that now… Well, I did manage to fall asleep. But I had this horrible dream. Nightmare. Whatever. And in the end of it—" I decide not to tell him the great joy I had in the beginning of it, as there really isn't any great need to bring that up again—"I ended up dying. Brutally. And it just kind of, I dunno… Set me off, I guess? And I guess that I just… Forgot. And I just remembered what would have normally happened in a situation like that. And so… I ran for you."

Stan stares down at the floor, away from me. "Right. Sure you did," he sighs. I'm sorely tempted to slap him again for acting like such a whiny little love-lost bitch, but I don't. I don't know why I don't. I just don't.

Honestly, this should have never happened. Stan is my best friend.

… But Stan was in the right all along. I'm the one who's been a total bastard. I'm the one who's been the dickhole to everybody. This whole "slashing" business has been a selfish attempt at shoving the responsibility onto somebody else, when really, this whole thing is my own fucking fault. It's been me all along. I'm the one who snapped at people and took it out on them. I'm the one who foolishly let people walk all over me and let myself get so affected by them. I'm the one who has left others in control my life, and this just isn't even now: it's always been that way. And when I decide that I've had enough of letting others control me, I can't even control myself. My upbringing has completely fucked me over. I don't know how to manage myself properly because I've always had someone else do it for me. I've never had to lift a finger. It explains everything. It explains my short temper perfectly. When I do get the rare opportunity to be in control of myself, I don't know how, so I just snap and lash out instead of acting like a decent person. I try my hardest to avoid being someone so easily stepped on, but it doesn't even matter anymore. It all just backfires on me in the end, and I'm the one stepping on myself.

This thing has all been my own fault. Nobody else's. And Stan was right all along. And I'm supposed to be his best friend.

"Stan, I'm a horrible friend," I start off. He opens his mouth to try to say something in reply, but I cut him off.

"I used to call you my best friend, and I'm sure you did vice versa, but I don't think that should be done anymore." Once again, he tries to speak, but I don't let him.

"You deserve better than me, dude. I don't think we should be friends anymore." His expression totally changes to a blank face. His mouth hangs open dumbly, and his eyes are all distant and unfocused. I think he's trying to choke something out, and just when he starts to succeed in voicing himself, I speak up again.

"… I think we should be something more."

Stan stops and smiles.


	16. Imagination

_Oh man, guys. I'm so sorry that this chapter is so boring. I think that it's effectively proven that I am most certainly** not** a romance writer, and I'm better off with using that as a catalyst for furthering my more angsty, serious-ish plots. I promise that it's going to start picking up, next chapter if I manage to write it well enough. _

_That aside: Oh, jesus christ, can you believe how incredible the tenth season was? Seriously. I'm totally depressed that the new episodes are over, and I'm eagerly awaiting March, but that season was amazing. Definitely my favourite season ever now. That was awesome. _

_Also, guys. Reviews fuel me. Seriously. Please, **please** review. I hate asking people to do that but honestly it makes me feel **so** much betters and gives me **so** much more encouragement. Thanks to those of you who do. Hope you guys continue to enjoy this fic._

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I take a quick glance out the window. That quick glance turns into more of a thoughtful stare as I watch the flakes of snow gently fall to the ground. It looks really cold out there. I'm happy it's not cold in here. I'm happy that I'm happy, and everything feels right, as it should. But the weather outside still gives me a slightly cold feeling, despite the fact that the window is completely shut. Shivering a little, I pull up Stan's blankets tighter around me, and once again lean back into him. He accepts.

No fights this time. No arguments. Just bliss. This feels so nice. I wish I could freeze time and stay like this.

"Um… Kyle?" Stan gently asks.

"Mmm?" I ask in response, mind too destroyed by the sheer contentedness of this whole scene to fully comprehend what's going on. All I know is that I'm with Stan and everything is perfect again. Nothing and nobody else exists.

Stan nervously fidgets for a second. "You, um… You know, you never did mention what it was that got your arm cut up so bad…"

Ignorance _was_ a bliss. And now that bliss is shattered. I fall in closer to Stan. Maybe if I push up against him harder, those other problems I totally forgot about will cease to exist.

No such luck.

Stan, do I really need to? "Stan, do I really need to?"

"Kyle," Stan says, "You… you did promise me that you would, remember? And dude… If there's anything I can do to help, I wanna do it. And before I can do that, I have to know what happened." Stan sits himself further upright, lying on the lower halves of his legs, his hands resting on his knees. "So come on. Just tell me."

I sigh and sit up as well, turning to face him. I lean my head further in towards his, and start off in a kind of cracked whisper. He doesn't need to know that I already told Kenny. _Kenny._ I wonder if I'd still get that sick pleasure from killing people if I did it again. I shiver a bit and compose myself, starting off once again in a cracked whisper.

And then I tell him the whole thing. Word for word what I told Kenny. Exactly. I don't know how or why it turned out that way. This thing must be burned into the back of my mind. It would make sense, really. I mean, that's what got this whole thing snowballed, isn't it? Yeah, and from there on other problems stemmed.

The Stan one is solved, however, the murder fascination one is not. My mother is not yet solved; I don't even really know what's been going on there. But I don't think that will ever be solved. I _think_ that the Cartman one is good to go, but… Oh, god. What am I going to do about school? There's… I have those projects with Red, and _Red_. I don't know what I'm going to be doing about her.

Stan, however, cannot hear my thoughts but only my recounted tale of what happened to me that December night that was only a few weeks ago. He meets it all, stone-faced, and can only seem to sum up with the words, "Dude, that's weak."

"… Yes. Yes it is, Stan."

"No, I mean, dude," he says. "I… don't fully… What? How would he find out? Do you know this guy, or something?"

"I didn't recognize him," I respond. Great. The same response from both Kenny _and_ Stan now. I don't need further proof that I'm acting like a paranoid idiot, guys. "Not at all. I barely even remember anything about him as it is, dude."

Stan pauses to think for a second. "So… he could be anybody we know?"

I hadn't really thought of that. That thought alone gives me even more shivers, and I nearly topple over and onto my face from that sudden shock. "I… I guess so," I sputter out. "Could be," I follow up. "Maybe," I close. "And then that way… he _would_ know if I told somebody. See?"

"Are you afraid of him, Kyle?" Stan asks. I have to stop and think about this for a second. I lower my gaze down to some random obscure corner of my vision and just think.

Well. I don't see why I _shouldn't_ be afraid of him. I mean, the guy has actually killed. Sure, I've been pretty out of it these past few days… But the only person I ever really killed was Kenny, so that was hardly a big enough of a deal. And sure. I threatened to kill Ike, I physically hurt Cartman, and I dreamed of murdering Stan horribly. That thought alone causes me to shiver again. "Stan, is your window open, by any chance?"

"No," he says, glancing at it and then back at me.

"Oh."

Well, the guy who hurt me probably still has a weapon. Does he still have that knife? Wait. No. He doesn't. I had it. And then I left it in that same spot. … So he might have it. It couldn't possibly be that hard to go retrieve something. Or what if he got something worse? A gun? A gun is less bloody but damn if it isn't a faster death. You could kill so many more people with a gun—I'm losing myself here. Not exactly the best thoughts to be having. I, um, still have that thing with me, don't I?

Yeah. I do.

I look back up at Stan after he quietly cleared his throat a bit. "Kyle?"

"Stan?" I ask in response, before remembering that what he had asked was what got me on this thought train. "Oh. Oh, yeah. Um… I don't know, dude. Maybe."

"Did anybody else ever see the bodies, Kyle? Do you know?"

"I… I don't think so, actually," I respond, trying to remember something. I know that it happened, but I just can't put my finger on it. I'm so sure of it though. "I'm pretty sure not. I don't think anybody's actually been in that area recently—"

I start to drift off again, and just kind of glance around. This is making me feel so uneasy. I want to change the topic. My eyes rest on Stan, and I just fall into him. "Dude, I'm so, so glad that I have you," I suddenly cry out, unsure of what just came over me. Maybe it's just the feeling of total and utter helplessness about the subject we were previously discussing. Nobody likes to feel helpless. And I think I'm returning myself to sanity again, but even when I was way, way more nuts, I still didn't like that feeling. So it makes sense.

Stan blinks, a bit taken aback by this reaction. "Yeah, Kyle, I'm… Yeah," he says. "Yeah. But what's going to happen now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" he starts off, pulling himself together. "Dude, it's been tormenting. Since I first saw you in that hospital I was terrified that I was going to lose you again. You've already had so many near-death experiences before, but those were just from diseases. This was an outside factor, and it just, really put things into more perspective, you know? We've both seen some incredibly fucked up things before, some totally disgusting, brutal, violent things, but they never happened to _us_. And then this just happened to you, and I… I was scared.

"All I did was sit there and reflect back on all of those times we've had in the past. All of the messed up things we've seen happen to other people that were totally gruesome. And all we ever did about them was watch, we never really tried to stop or help or anything. I mean, sure, we _tried_ to stop, but feeble attempts aren't really worth mentioning, are they? Nothing real was ever done. And then I just found the same thing happening here again, but this time it was with _you_. And that just changed everything, dude. You're the person I turn to the most, the guy I can trust my life with. And I did and you came through," Stan breathes out. "You overcame whatever your deal was with me.

"I've always tried to do so much to help you out, because I don't want to see you hurting. I really don't. That's why I've been sticking by your side so much, and even when we were at each other's throats, I just had this lingering feeling in the back of mind that this was wrong; this isn't what I wanted at all. And I came close to puking each time it happened, but I had to force that feeling away. Did you ever feel that, Kyle?"

I swallow. Honesty is a good thing here. If we're going to do anything, we've gotta be honest. From now on. And just, not let things like this happen again. Get everything out in the open right away so we can work on solving the problem immediately. So I decide to be honest. "… No, Stan. Actually, I… I didn't." Now _I_ feel a bit like puking, even though that's much more Stan's trait than mine. "I… This is so awful to say, but I really did hate you. I felt no remorse whatsoever. I just… wanted you dead."

Stan's eyes widen slightly, and he looks a bit taken aback. The expression is quickly overtaken by one of disappointment. "Oh," he says, putting his peripheral vision into use and lowering his head. His hair falls into his eyes a bit, and his hat moves down slightly. "But… do you now?" he asks, rising his head back up, giving me direct eye contact, staring at me with all of the force he can muster. His black hair is still in his eyes a bit, and his eyes are… not so blue, they're so much more grey. And hurt-looking.

"Of course I do!" I cry out, feeling incredibly guilty. "Stan. It's… It's a wonderful thing that we've gotten all of the anger out of the way, but can we drop the sadness, too? It's over! We made up, we're friends again—"

"I… I thought we were more than that, now…?" Stan questions, confused now. "That's where this whole thing started from, remember? What's happening here?"

He just brought to force such an indirect and yet obvious question. I think my stomach is churning.

_Am I gay or am I straight? _

I. I don't know. First, there was Henrietta. I… There was something about her that got to me, and it definitely wasn't her opinions or actions. But that died out pretty quickly. There was nothing more than moronic lust for a bit, and then, upon her final moments of living, during our final meeting, there was nothing. All that experience really proved to me was that love was an idiotic emotion.

Next female was Red. According to her, we did things. A lot of things. And that it was me doing most of said things. But… I never really felt any of it. I didn't even really know of it. I just kind of… Well, if I did all that she said I did, then I zoned out for so much of it. Like I didn't _want_ it. I've found talking to her, _being_ with her to be incredibly unbearable recently.

And then Cartman… Cartman? Is that over now? It's gotta be. I think that we confirmed that, kinda. Yeah. Yeah, we did. In some sort of silent agreement. I did kiss him, but I'm not entirely sure why I did, at this point. I guess I just felt the need to be… Felt the need to love? To have someone? And as far as I was concerned at that point in time, he was the only someone that could fulfill that. But when I first learned of his apparent lust for me, I ended up losing my vision. There's no way I could've consciously kissed him. I don't understand this at all. … Cartman's out.

So out of those three, Red was the only _truly_ physical relation, and that hardly counts if I can't really recall it all. And what's it that separates friends from significant others? Physical relations? I guess so. I stare back at Stan, analyzing.

He's still waiting. He's so expectant. He's not a bad looker at all. His hair is dark. And his eyes are so… grey-blue. I thought that they were bluer than that. Maybe I'm just being more observant right now. He's in good physical shape; he's not fat, he's not skinny, and he's not buff. He's rather average. … Average and. Yeah. Hot.

_Stan's hot,_ I say to myself. _Stan's hot._

"Let me think about that for a moment," I inform him, and then realize how entirely stupid it was to say that after I'd already done just that. Stan merely nods. No questions about my saying that or anything, like he's just patiently waiting for my answer, and how he's gonna respect me any way I decided to go.

So, what's love? I might as well ponder over some more deep questions before coming to an official decision. Is it just some feeling humans get, or is it beyond that?

I then realize how _stupid_ that sounds. Come on, Kyle. You're supposed to be intelligent here. Of course it's just a feeling. I think I'll put that feeling to the test.

I lean in for a kiss with Stan. He accepts and returns. I get into it, he gets into it. It feels so _beautiful_. I'm totally lost in this here, I can hardly keep… Well… Thinking, proper, straight, you, um, you know? Those things. Yeah. Those things happen. That… things? What things? I'm just so… _It's_ just so…

Shut up, mind.

Okay, mouth.

Pulling away sucks, but at least I can look back at him. Our eyes open in synchronization, and we stare back at each other. But it's a soft kind of stare. I dunno. I always thought that the word "stare" had negative connotations to it. But not here, it doesn't. Oh, christ, I'm mind-babbling. I guess I'm just in total ecstasy.

"No. Dude," I start off, "we can be both. Best friends _and_ boyfriends. I don't think I could ever find somebody else to fill either kind of void. I mean… Not specifically in the boyfriend sense. Girlfriend, too. Just. Significant other, you know? That works. I can't see myself with anybody other than you. Judging on all that's happened to me these past few long, agonizing weeks, you've been the only _real_ good bit throughout it all." I lean in to him again, and this time, it's Stan who starts off a deep kiss.

"Sweet, dude," is all he can respond with, and I just nod my head in agreement. There aren't really any good words to say to sum it all up other than those two. It's so hard to just explain it all, and so much easier to just let your actions and expressions do it for you; alerting the other person of your feelings that way. We just sit there in silence. Just enjoying the other's company. Nothing more, nothing less. Just enjoying.

I feel the need to interrupt this because we aren't really getting anywhere. "Come to think of it, you've been the one on my mind most of this time," I pipe up, wishing that I hadn't the second that I close my mouth.

"Yeah?" Stan asks, indicating for me to continue.

"Well… I, I hate to do this, but, going back into the topic of what… happened to me, earlier," I begin, "Well, a bit after that. That thing with Henrietta. I told you about that, right?"

"Yeah," he answers. "You did."

I take a deep breath and continue. "Afterwards I found myself in the same spot where I first got cut. Ike found me there. The dead bodies were in plain site to me, but he didn't see them. I think it's just because I was blocking the view, or the snow was, or something. But that's not the point. The point is, I _heard_ someone coming before I knew who it was. And I did call out to ask if it was you. I was desperately, desperately hoping that it was you."

Stan pauses in thought for a moment. "Wait. Ike didn't see them?" he questions, totally ignoring what I had really meant to say. I nod, regardless. "Dude, Kyle… Do… Do you think you could take me to see them?"

"… What."

"Kyle. I want to see them."

"_Why?_"

"I just, I just do. Maybe you should, too. It could help a bit, for closure, you know? Yeah." He fidgets with the drawstrings on his hoodie a bit. "Are you okay with this?"

"But… but dude. Then he'll _know_," I argue. "He'll _know_ and we'll both be in total shit."

"I'm sure we'll be safe," Stan says. "Trust me." That's all he says – and I trust him.

* * *

It's snowing heavily now. Trying to trudge our way through all of this stuff is exceedingly insane, especially considering just how hard it is to even see. It's pretty damn cold out but we're managing our way through it all. Cliché and cheesy enough as it is, I'm feeling warm enough by just being with Stan.

"Dude," he suddenly breaks the silence that there was between the two of us, and is now setting up competition for the noisy wind blowing through the air, "What are we going to do after this?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, struggling to move forwards. The snow sure is deep, and the wind is hardly helping matters.

Stan drags me forwards a small bit. "I mean, what with school and all. What's going to happen there? I think we kinda shocked everyone a bit too much. What're people gonna say now?"

I shrug. "I dunno, but I'm a bit more concerned with the workload, actually. You know that novel English assignment? I have to work with Red on that, and I'd really rather not. She's so… I mean, she'd be guaranteed to act irrationally bitter to me because of you, but there's also just how nuts she is about me. It's not right."

Stan pauses to look at me. "Dude, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Bertha. Y'know? Her? She's completely in love with me, don't you remember what we heard outside the bathroom that one time—"

"No, no, not that!" Stan interrupts. "What novel English assignment?"

I pause and blink. He shakes his head to clear it of the snow that's fallen on him. "That… one we were assigned to do… in pairs… Write a story of novel-length quantity…" My voice trails off uncertainly.

"Dude, that never happened," is all Stan says, and then continues onwards, towards my house (because it'd be much easier to navigate the way to the hill from there).

I stay where I am, the words just barely registering in my mind. "That… never… happened?" I ask, staring ahead blankly, letting the snow clouding my vision even further. "You mean we… never had an assignment like that?"

He turns back to me. "Yeah, dude. That never happened. No such assignment exists. Not for us, at any rate."

"But I… we had in-class time to work on it, dude. It was announced. No way. Of course it happened."

Stan just shrugs and comes back a bit more to pull me forwards. "Nope. Never happened. I'm not sure what you were thinking of, dude. Maybe you were just hallucinating? But that definitely never happened."

"Stop saying that!" I shout out at him. "It… It did, I'm sure of it!" Oh, no. My mind is starting to race. "Red told me! Yeah! She told me that we were assigned to work together! She told me that we had to do it! She invited me over to her house to work on it! We, we got started on it! Sure we've barely done any follow-up work on it since but she said that we were doing it and that we were partnered up together! She said that!"

Stan raises a brow at me. … God, he's adorable. "Dude. Kyle. You heard what Red said to Annie. That you were all over her."

"Yeah?"

"Even if she _wasn't_ lying about that – which she very well could have been – she could have just used that as an excuse to get you two to spend some more time together."

"… She wouldn't have," I state in disbelief. "She wouldn't have," I repeat, as if saying things twice automatically makes them true.

"How do you know that?" Stan questions. "It fits in, doesn't it? Because that assignment _never happened_. It never did and it never will. She just probably made it up as an excuse to get closer to you, taking advantage of your absence from school to mess around with you there. We don't have any big projects in English right now."

I feel my anger level rising. "Do we have to write up anything on emotions?"

"Nope," Stan replies. "Nothing. Maybe she made that up to further throw you off, y'know, make it seem more realistic."

Yup, I'm definitely pissed off now. "So you're saying—"

"I'm making a theory. Theorizing."

"Right," I correct myself, and walk up to meet him. "So you're 'theorizing' that Red made up both of those assignments, taking advantage of my hospital predicament, just so she could get to know me better in hopes of getting the chance to 'be with me' and 'love me' and some more shit like that."

"Pretty much."

I clench and unclench my fists over and over, totally seething. Through my teeth I hiss out, "That little bitch! She totally takes advantage of my state of well being just for her sake of _'love_!'" I snarl out the last word in a mocking tone. "Because she wants to _be with me_! She _looooves_ me!" I rage over this concept, increasing my pace through the deep, white snow and almost flailing my arms about. "I'll kill her, that fucking cunt! She… christ, you just don't _do that_ to people! You just _don't_!" I reach down into my pocket and feel the gun lying there. "Goddamnit, Stan! Goddamnit! I'll blow her fucking brains out! Who the hell does she think she is, pulling shit like that on people?"

I want to continue ranting and making my pseudo-threats, but Stan places a hand on my shoulder, and I calm down almost immediately, leaning my head into his. "Whoa, Kyle, calm down," he says. "There are more important things to worry about."

The rest of the trip back to my house is made in silence. We went around the long, back way so as not to be spotted by anyone accidentally, even though it still is a rather ungodly hour of the morning. Both of our attentions are more focused on getting there, or each other, but I'm still partially lost in my anger towards Red. I know I'm honestly not one to talk about good people-relations right now, but I never did _use_ anyone.

The night is too silent for my liking, though. The only sound, now that we've stopped talking, is just coming from the wind, and it has this cool, eerie feeling to it that I just don't like. The amount of snow falling from the sky has increased heavily, to the point where it's nearly impossible to see your own hand in front of your face. I don't know how we're going to look at the corpses when the weather conditions are like this. Maybe's it for the best that we don't see them? Maybe it's some kind of divine intervention. Sometimes it's nice to think that you're important enough for a godly power to take notice of you.

We reach the back area of my house. I'm not too sure how long it's been, but I'm pretty sure that Stan doesn't exactly know, either. "It's this way," I say, not giving either of us a chance to take a break. It's too cold out to just sit around. We don't really have a ton of breath to catch, anyway. So onwards we go, now for an incline in the land. It just makes walking all the more difficult.

Stan looks around him as we move upwards. He's taking in the scenery, I guess. Or maybe just trying to remember the exact location. I pause in my step to turn to him and ask him a question that's been bugging me since we started this trek.

"Stan, why do you want to see the corpses so bad? Just because Ike couldn't see them? What?"

He turns to look over at me. I wonder how he feels right now. "Well, kinda," he answers, "that's kinda the reason. But there could be a bit more to it. I mean, maybe they're still recognizable? And if we know who the deceased are, that might lead to some kind of clue as to who the killer is, right?"

"I guess that could work," I answer. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Yeah. And if we find out who he is, then maybe this whole mess can come to an end, dude. We'll know exactly what's going on and you'll know who to fear – or who not to fear. And then we just have to patch everything else up and our lives can go on as normal. And we can have better times, just the two of us – and Cartman and Kenny, too. The four of us, just hanging out like normal," he rambles. "And then the two of us going off on our own more. And we wouldn't have any of these things to worry about at all."

I nudge him in the side to get him to shut up for a bit. "Yeah, but remember, that's only _if_ we can identify the bodies. If not, then we're still at square one." At least my question was answered. And I hadn't really thought of what Stan did before. But if he's right, then things will start looking up.

We continue on in silence, but I feel like something's been lifted from my chest, and I can focus more on the task at hand without having to worry so much. It feels so nice. Looks like things are finally turning out well for Kyle Broflovski. Kyle Broflovski appreciates this.

Finally, we come to it: the spot where the event took place that caused everything to start happening. There isn't really anything new about it, not like there would be. The trees are still there and the snow plentiful, but it's cleared up a considerable amount. Everything is just matching my mood now, huh? Yeah. It's nice to get a break. Hope it can last.

"Alright, this is it," I inform Stan. "Back behind here is where the corpses are, I'm pretty sure. We'll just have to dig through some of the snow."

Stan nods. "'k," he says. Kinda simple. But it's not like we need a totally deep discussion here, or anything. So we get straight to it.

The snow is absolutely freezing after a while, and sifting through it all is a great pain. Stan's taking a break right now just because his fingers are cold and wet, but I'm still looking. I'm getting kind of freaked out here, because we just can't _find_ them. And I know that they're here for sure. But what if somebody else discovered them? What if the murderer came back and claimed them again? What if we're being watched _right now_? Oh, god!

"Jesus, Kyle, you're starting to sound like Tweek," Stan pops up with his comment.

I shrug. "I wasn't aware that I was speaking out loud—ah! Here! Here they are!" I exclaim. It's a bit odd to sound so excited about finding some dead bodies, but hey, it's a great relief to see them. For me. … Oh man, this is so messed up.

"Yeah?" Stan asks, coming over. "Where are they? Can you recognize them?"

"They're right there," I say, pointing it out to him, even though it should be pretty obvious. I mean, they're _right there_. "I can… Well, I don't know who they are, but I have this faint notion in the back of my head that I know who these are. Or, um, were. Who they were."

Stan peers in further. "I still don't see them," he says. "I just see snow."

"What?" I ask, turning to look at him. "That's not possible. They're right there. They're definitely right in front of us. Look!" I cry out, grabbing an only slightly-decayed (there must have been a small warm spell for a bit) arm of one of the bodies. It accidentally snaps off from the rest of the dead body, but I pay that no real heed and instead wave it in Stan's face by its wrist. "See? Right here! Right here, Stan! It's right here!"

Stan only stares blankly at me. "Kyle, you aren't holding anything. You're… waving air at me. There's nothing there."

It's now my turn to stare blankly at him. "No, dude. It's right here. See? See…?" I ask feebly.

Stan looks at me dead-center now, with direct eye contact and everything. "No, Kyle. Nothing's there. There are no corpses here at all. Absolutely none. I think you might have just imagined them all."

I stare back, mind not comprehending this. After a few minutes of silence, I speak up.

"So then… who slashed my arm?" 


	17. Revelations

_First off, this is the last update for a bit, because my parents have taken over the majority of my winter break with our trip down to California. So that's gay, but it's a good thing in a way, too. Because I have **no idea** what I'm doing after this. Well, I have a bit of an idea… But I really need some time to think about where I'm going. Luckily, this chapter opened up a new window for me that I realized as I was going over it, but I still have to think up some more stuff, as the only totally clear thing in my mind right now is the ending._

_Oh, god, the ending. I wonder when I'm gonna get to that. Since this is the best chance to say it – happy early birthday to _Hold Back_! Eight days from now, it'll have been a year since I started you up. Actually, technically it'd be seven, and eight days since I first posted it. Wow. I really didn't think it'd still be going on this long, and that I'd still have interest in it, but I do and writing this chapter up tonight just made me love this even more._

_You know, I could totally hug myself a year ago. 'cause as I was going over this chapter, I noticed so much fodder I had planted for myself in earlier chapters that I wasn't even aware of, but that fits PERFECTLY and helps me a LOT now, later on in this fic. Quite a few of the fodder was intentional for when I would get to this point, but… Some of it wasn't intentional at all, and as I come across these coincidences, I get really, really happy._

_So yeah. That's enough of my rambling. Enjoy! (And remember my stance on reviews, too?)_

* * *

_You did it._

"Stan…?" I ask once again. My voice, already quiet, trails off into further silence. I move my arm that's holding the dead arm around a bit more. "It's right here… Isn't it? Look, it's, it's right… right here… Right in your face, in my face… Right here, dude, right here…" I don't even know what I'm feeling right now.

Stan once again peers into the small hole. "No, dude. I'm sorry. There's nothing there."

"But there… There has to be!" I cry out, my voice taking on a bit of strain now. I feel myself getting weaker. My arms flop down to my sides, I lose my grip on the corpse's arm, and if I wasn't already kneeling, I'd have collapsed to my knees by now. I turn my head and look into the hole, invoked in a staring contest with one of the skulls' empty eye sockets. There's something so… compelling about them. Without turning my head at all, and still just staring, I mumble, "I remember it so perfectly… How could it possibly not be true?"

Stan follows my gaze, but he isn't looking at what I'm looking at. I can't turn my eyes away from these empty ones, but all my best friend—my boyfriend, now, I guess—can see is snow. I guess snow can match up with death, though. It's cold, it's white… But it just doesn't feel it. There's something so much purer about it. About… I don't even know. All I can do is stare. This leaves me dumbfounded.

"Like I said, dude," Stan suddenly speaks up again, and I turn my head and stare at his face, his eyes, "maybe you just imagined them."

This statement causes me to panic once again. Without turning my gaze, I start freaking out. "No. No. That's impossible. That's impossible, Stan! I—I described it so perfectly! I knew exactly what happened! What I told you, it's exactly what I told Kenny, I know it! It's like it was memorized! No way I made that all up. No. Way. No. It's not imagined. They're right here. Kenny believed me; he took it right from the start! I told both of you exactly the same thing, and—"

"Whoa, whoa, wait. What?" Stan cuts into my panicked rambling. "You told Kenny too? When was this?"

I hadn't realized… I completely forgot I didn't tell Stan… "It, it was earlier today… What time is it? Yesterday, after we left school… Oh god, it's only been a day? It's only been a day, Stan. This has all taken place in less than twenty-four hours. Oh, christ, that means it hasn't even been a day. I—"

"Kyle," Stan says, taking hold of both of my hands with his own, "calm down. Just let your mind relax, and we'll figure out what's going on with all of this."

But all I can do is grip Stan's hands tighter. "I can't relax, Stan! I—can't! I—No. The bodies are there. They're definitely there. I see them as clearly as I see you. Everything I said happened."

Stan sighs, a little frustrated. "Dude, I already told you, they **aren't** there—"

"Yes they are!" I cry out once again, whipping my head back towards that skull and those eye sockets. "Maybe _you're_ the one imagining things, huh, Stan? Maybe it's you! Maybe it's all you!"

At this, Stan squeezes my hands, and I feel myself relaxing a bit. "Kyle, now you're just being irrational. Look at me—Look at me!" he screams, and my attention is regained. "Come on, who's been the one freaking out over this? You. Who's been the one out of it lately? You. You've been acting so weird, dude. This isn't like you. You don't let things like this get to you. You're sensible and calm. You don't—You don't want to kill people, you don't _actually_ kill people, you don't make plans for it. You don't do any of that stuff! You don't freak out like this. Ever. It's _you_, Kyle. You're the one imagining it all." He knows that he's right. I know that he's right. He knows that I know that he's right. But I just don't want to say it, because it'll be admitting something bad.

His eyes hold a cold, hard truth to them. He's being blunt, but he's right, too. But if he is, then… "Then dude, that's not possible. No imagination is this composed. Nope, you've gotta be the one imagining it."

He slaps me in the face. The force of the slap jerks my head to the side, but I keep my focus on him. It stings, though. The cold already stung but getting smacked with that much strength behind it just makes it sting more. It's brutal. Fuck. I can't even move, or express emotion here at all. No tears from the pain, no anger at getting hurt, just sheer blankness.

Incredulity. That's what it is. All I can do is stare at Stan in disbelief.

"Kyle," he says, slowly, and… dangerously. I note that he's still holding my hands, but the grip is normal. "You know as well as I do that I'm not the one making shit up here. You are. Admit it, because we're never going to get anywhere closer to this being solved if you don't."

_He's right._

"Y—yeah… I know, dude. Yeah… Yeah… You're right. Yeah. I… just, I just can't believe it, Stan. It feels so real to me. _Too_ real. And if they aren't there, then that means that—"

"That there was nobody threatening you and cutting you up, making you promise not to tell? You don't have anything to tell!" he cries out.

This makes me choke on my words. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I look around wildly at my surroundings, searching for some escape, but I'm unable to find one. For chrissake, I can't even run off and hide in a blizzard, because there is no blizzard. It's dark out, but the moonlight is plentiful, as well as the stars, but everything else is just thin air. It's a beautiful night. Why can't my mood be matching this anymore.

I close my mouth, and open it again, hoping for some sound to come out, but nothing does.

_You know who did it._

"Ss… St—Stan," I manage to get out, but only in a mere whisper. "I—if," I manage to continue, my voice becoming more audible as I go along, "nobody was ever killed here, and I wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time, then there was nobody to slash my arm. And I can remember it so clearly, but you're right, it can't be true. So… I have no idea who did it… Nor do I know why."

"We'll figure it out, dude. I promise." His words, just these words, make me lose it once again, but in a calmer manner. I just close my eyes, take a couple of deep breaths as I'm trying to compose myself, and just tackle him. I tackle him and hug him and don't let go. He hugs me back. I squeeze; he squeezes me back. We're just lying in the snow, clinging to each other, and I'd want to die if it wasn't for this right now.

_Stop it._

Eventually Stan pushes me off, and I open my eyes, but I can tell that's he thoroughly contented from that. "Okay," he says, his voice at a happier pitch, "let's get back to figuring this out. We've gotta prioritize."

I sit back, and nod, hesitantly. "Y—yeah. You're right. Again." I don't want to do this. I just want to forget about everything that's happened and just… Just go home, or go to Stan's home, or go to some nice place, a warm place, and just… be with him. That's all I want to do right now. But I guess Stan just wants to get this solved first. It's probably for my own good, really.

We stare at each other for a second, until Stan blurts out: "Cartman?"

"… What?" I ask, a bit taken aback. "What do you mean?" I look over my shoulder, wondering if he's coming up from behind me right now, but of course he's not. But the last time I saw him, I was completely out of it, to the point where I wanted to just—be with him. Do the things that I wanna do with Stan with him. And that's just not right. Cartman knew it himself. It just doesn't work that way.

Stan tugs at the hair poking out from under his hat in thought. "I'm just thinking here, but dude, maybe it was Cartman? I mean, it fits. The start of your story, maybe it's not** all** made up. He really pissed you off there, and he was probably pretty pissed himself. Why, I don't know, it's Cartman. But that's just it. It's Cartman. He's crazy dude, probably moreso than you."

I blink. "You… You think I'm crazy, too?" I ask, and I can't help but feel a little bit hurt.

"Well… yeah, dude. I think that's pretty established by now." And once again, Stan's right. I don't know what I'm thinking here, honestly. I guess I'm not thinking at all, really.

_That's because you don't want to think._

"I—I don't think it's Cartman," I stutter out nervously. "It just… doesn't fit for me. No, it couldn't have been him, Stan. Remember how he was in the hospital? He was pretty stunned by it. And I think it was genuine."

Stan just shrugs. "Whatever you say, dude," is all the reply I get. "Whatever you say."

I stare at him, and then at my arm. I roll up the sleeve so that I can get a good look at the cut. It's still all scabbed up, and it's still bleeding a bit. **_Still._** How long has it been like this now? A few weeks? Who did it? It's still—It's just as long as ever. From halfway between my shoulder and elbow, right down to the end of my wrist. It's smooth, as if done in a quick, fluid motion. It's blackened and where it isn't, it's reddened. It's just so damn fucking bloody. I find myself losing it, and once again getting into a staring contest, only this thing doesn't have any eyes to stare back at me with. If it did, it'd be really creepy. But it doesn't. Thank god.

I pour all of my focus, my gaze, my attention into the cut; as if staring at it will help me figure out who did it and what caused it. It's a long shot, but maybe it was just nature. Maybe it was some big tree branch or something.

_Okay, time to stop being a retard,_ I tell myself. Yeah. No way in hell was this a natural thing. "There's one thing I'm certain of," I announce to Stan, "and that's that this was definitely caused by a knife. The same knife that the supposed killer – although I guess he doesn't really exist – had, the same knife I accidentally killed Henrietta with, the same knife I threatened my brother with. I know for a fact that it's that knife. I don't know how I know. I just know."

_You know because you don't want to think._

"But there's still the question of who had the knife when this happened."

_You don't want to think because you think too much._

I continue to stare at my arm. I never really noticed how deep this cut was before. I think I can see a bit of bone glistening through, but it's probably just my imagination again.

_When you think too much, you reach conclusions._

I can't decide if this whole thing is a good thing or a bad thing.

_You usually don't like those conclusions._

I mean, on one hand… Yeah. Looking at my arm, it's painful. It was painful, and hell, it still _is_ painful. Something that big just doesn't leave you right away. On the other hand, it really did bring Stan and I closer together, and even though I'm in complete distress right now, I guess that's a good thing.

"Kyle," Stan suddenly interjects my thoughts. He comes up from behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders and looking at my cut with me. "I had another thought—but I don't think it's right."

_But he's been right throughout the course of this morning._

"Mmm," I say in response. Just "mmm." Nothing else. Partially in warmth and comfort, but mostly in thought.

_Stop fooling yourself._

What.

_I see. Self-harm, perhaps, then?_

… No.

_You know, denial is—_

I'm not in denial. There isn't anything to be in denial about.

_You never tried to kill yourself._

Damn right I never tried to kill myself.

_What, I upset you enough to try to make you kill yourself? Kyle was so upset that after our discussion he had to run off and cut himself._

I whirl myself around and burry my face into Stan's chest. I cling to him desperately, but that's it. I know that the tears are coming, but they haven't arrived yet. Rather, I just find myself desperately, desperately clinging, trying to will it all away. Because it never happened. None of this ever happened. I'm happy and I'm normal and I'm myself and I didn't do something completely fucking retarded. That never, ever happened. None of this ever, ever happened. I'm sleeping. I'm sleeping right now. This is all a horrible dream except for this one small part of it known as Stan. I'm sleeping and I'm probably going to wake up in a second to find Stan right beside me and I'll hug him as I am now, but it'll be more of a hug instead of a desperate cling. A desperate cling that's almost as if if I let go of him I'll fall out of my sanity once again. Just. Like. Before. It happened before.

I went even crazier when I started hating Stan. I took those murderous obsessions even farther, and since gaining my best friend, and then some, back, they've subsided and I've been feeling completely content again. I feel so much happier when I'm with him. I don't care if it's probably only been, what, two fucking hours, tops. It's, what, 4:30 AM on a Tuesday morning now? That's probably about it.

It's just like old times, almost. Whenever one of us was feeling completely distressed, and couldn't sleep, we would rush over to the other one's house, wake them up, and spend the remainder of the night with them. This has been a fucking distressing night. It's happening again. But those trips to Stan's house always calmed me down. Always. I never got worked up again.

Why am I getting so worked up now?

_Admit it._

No. It never happened.

_Yes, it did._

No, I—I'm pretty sure it didn't.

_You've been wrong this whole night._

So if I say that I did do it, I'd still be wrong?

… Oh. Shit. That slipped.

That slipped.

_You know who did it. You've known it this whole time._

Now the tears start forming, and I press myself further up against Stan, who really is clueless, as he's just waiting for me to do something. He hasn't really moved at all. I should say something.

"I know who did it. I've known it this whole time."

"What?" Stan demands, taken aback. I guess I would be too. I should be taken aback, but I'm not. Because I guess I really _have_ known it all this time.

_You did it._

"I—I—"

_You did it._

"I—"

"Kyle…" Stan looks down at me and I look up to meet his gaze, but I'm still clinging to him. Desperately. My eyes are blurred with tears and all I can see are colours. And even those are blurred, too. I'm fucking pathetic.

"I fucking cut myself. Fuckin' sliced myself right fuckin' open. I've known it this whole goddamn time but convinced myself that I didn't do anything." My voice is bitter, but it's still just as broken as it could possibly be. For a while afterwards I lose the ability to really speak properly. I fling myself back into Stan and cry dry tears. I don't feel anything other than the warmth of his body. I don't want to feel anything else. Especially not any other kinds of warmths. Blood is warm. I've felt enough of that.

_How could I do this to myself._ I was right. I do think too much. I do it without even realizing it, as is apparent now. I didn't want to admit that I'd do something like this to myself. So why would I? I made up my own goddamn lie. I blacked the entire thing out from my head and formed a lie that fit with the situation – that is, until somebody demanded proof of it. Ike never saw the bodies. I just assumed I was obscuring his view, but I wasn't, because they were never there. Stan asked to see them and I couldn't deliver.

I've been deceiving everyone, but mostly myself. I'm supposed to be the Jewish kid. The smart, calm, collected, rational, moral kid. The one who knows what's right, what's wrong, and what to do in each situation. The one who would not lose his cool and end up doing something like this. The one whose primary emotion is anger, not self-pity and pathetic sorrow.

… Oh. God.

I sniffle a bit and pull away from Stan, suddenly realizing that I was on the right track when I first cut myself, and that I do deserve to die. Oh god, do I deserve it. I'll fucking freeze to death here and now, and all will be well again. I voice this decision out to Stan, determined and set straight in it, for one blatantly obvious reason.

"What? Kyle! No!" he cries out.

"Don't you get it, Stan?" I spin around once again, my voice filled with hatred – but it's all directed at me, definitely not at him. He didn't do anything wrong. The one fault of his was falling for me, and I was the catalyst for that, too.

"No, I don't!" he yells back at me, pissed. "I don't because it doesn't make any fucking sense! Dude, what the hell is wrong with you!"

"**Everything!**" I yell back at him. "Every! Fucking! Thing! Have you not been paying attention, Stan? How many times have I said 'It's all the guy who slashed me's fault!'? How many times? Because it's true! Everything that's happened has been the fault of the one that cut my arm – and _I_ was the one who did it! I fooled myself right from the fucking start. I hallucinated right from the fucking start of the situation I made up for myself in order to hide this. Just before I woke up in the hospital I was 'reliving' the moment. And then you showed up, and you said it yourself. That's when you started thinking. This is all the fault of _thinking_!" I shout out, this new realization dawning on me and hitting me full force, like having the ground come up to meet you after jumping off of a cliff. "I fucking hate the human mind!"

I punch the ground in anger, but it's all just newly-fallen snow, and so I lose my balance and topple face-forward into it. Stan immediately hoists me up and meets my eyes. He presses his forehead right against mine, as close as he can get to me, and we glare at each other. I feel myself losing my determination and will under his glare. Slowly, I back off.

It's Stan's turn to talk now. His voice is relatively calm, but there's definitely anger in it. I think he's lost his mind, a bit like how I have, too. But… just… fuck.

"Just… fuck," he says. "Kyle, don't go off blaming yourself for this whole mess until we know the whole story. You keep saying that it all started off right when your arm got gashed, but maybe it started before then."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ever think as to _why_ you did it? I mean, over the past few years… Well… If anyone other than you should know, it'd be me. I'm your best friend, dude. You've just kinda slowly… deteriorated." He sounds so much calmer now. I think I've been taking a breather, too. "Don't just think about the action. Think about the motive."

He's right. Once again, Stanley Marsh is completely correct. How many times has it been this night—morning so far? Right from when he first kicked me over two hours ago, he's been in the right. I guess I've fucked up big time.

But that… He's stuck through with me this whole night. Oh my god, Stan, I love you so much. He probably knows that he's done nothing wrong, too, and yet he continues to stand by me. But what he just said… About deteriorating over the past few years. I guess that he's stuck by me through those times, too.

And now that I think about it, I can recall a bunch of those times. Those first near-death situations which are so similar, and yet so different, to this. The fact that Kyle Broflovski dying at a young age would no longer be a surprise to anyone if it actually happened. I kept on getting landed down with health problems. And then there was Cartman. We hated each other to a pretty scary extent a couple of years ago. It cooled off once we got a bit older, but the hate still remained. But when we were pre-teens… I don't know what happened. Maybe something really, really bad happened to his life. Naturally, none of us would have really noticed. Kenny might have, and if I remember this, I'll ask him when he comes back to life. But neither Stan nor I really cared. After all, it was Cartman.

But something pretty bad must have happened, and thinking back on those years, something probably did. Because suddenly Cartman got even more violent. I mean, sure, as he got older his violent acts got more extreme, but they, like, shot up around the time we were eleven-twelve. And suddenly I became even more of a punching bag.

We fought. A lot. And it was always around the worst places, too. Near the edge of a cliff, or right on a mountain? Sure thing. No problem. He was totally reckless, and didn't really even have any concern over his own safety, much less mine. He never did pull a weapon on me… But things continued to get worse and worse as time went on. Sure, he'd snuck into my house before, but sneaking in to _tie me up_? There were times that he would just tie me down to my bed, and kick and punch me every time I struggled to get free – and then there was the rope burn, too. And it just continued going on from there. We fought so much that seeing one of us without a black eye was a rarity. He just got this sick pleasure from hurting me. But since he never did pull a weapon on me, there was more to it than fighting. I'm not too sure if he realized the non-physical effects.

I shouldn't have been emotionally hurt by the fact that Cartman chose me to be his human punching bag. I should have expected it. And I did. But just… There was something about the tone of his voice. His body language and specific actions. Every single time. When we were younger than that, whenever we all had a joint cause, whether it was sending a whale back to the moon, or all becoming fatlards in an effort to save an online world, we all worked together perfectly. And that includes Cartman and I, and our lack of quarrels. But upon getting older, there was no more working together, and I don't think that that's even been fully restored yet. Because it was Kyle hate 24/7, and "hate" isn't even the right word for it. It was too strong for just that one word.

And when somebody just gets in your way like that, it's hard to concentrate on other things. Because his sole purpose in life back then was pretty much hurting me.

"Dude," Stan starts off, interrupting my thoughts as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, "you should've seen yourself. I mean, you were always able to take him, but do you remember coming over to my place so many times in the middle of the night when that was all going on? There were entire weeks you slept over."

I nod solemnly. I do remember that. I remember coming to Stan's place so many times, in exactly the same manner that I came over to his place a few hours ago. Crying, a nervous, freaked-out wreck, and wanting nothing more than a best friend to help me out.

Really, it seems like Cartman back then parallels me now, but with one key difference. He didn't have a best friend back then. I guess Kenny picked up on this, and the two just sort of… clicked. But before he had Kenny, Cartman actually _did_ act out his anger and violence. I never really did much of that because I always had someone with whom I shared a great bond with. Someone I was pretty much exactly alike. And he was just always there.

I'd wonder if Cartman ever hurt himself, like I did, but it's fully possible that he saw me as himself. And so, rather than take it out on his own actual body, he took it out on his body's substitute – which he saw as me. And it was brutal.

But things did manage to get slightly better between the two of us once Kenny stepped in and helped Cartman out. But it's not like it was solely Cartman. After all, this happened just now. So there would be… I guess, all of the accumulating stress—

My mother.

She—god, she's been doing horribly in this situation too, but before that… I guess it was just the general presence. The idea that if I didn't meet up to her unrealistic expectations, I'd be a failure. And I never could meet up. I could try all I wanted, but I'd fail, and then I'd be left with the guilt of letting her down. I was always the disappointment. I still am the disappointment. But then the groundings would start up, and I'd just be further pressured to succeed, or else. Or else what? It was never said. It was basically an unspoken wrath.

Although I have a strong suspicion that that "or else" would have been "you can never fucking see Stan ever again, ever". And that would have broken me down even more – moreso than what was already happening. About what's happened now, when I finally actually did lose Stan. It wasn't even for that long – only about a day – but things were not the best on me.

So that's what it was? Just… Just a build up of way, way too much pressure and hurt? I guess that could be. It, I guess it ties in a bit with my temper. A huge mess of _why me? Why me_? going on in my head the whole time. That would cause quite a bit of anger for anyone, I guess. _Why am I stuck with someone who wants to actually blow my brains out? Why is my mother so fucking unrealistic? Why do I have to deal with this? What did I do to deserve all of this?_ After all, I'm supposed to be the most moral one. I'm a good person. I used to think that it was Stan and I who were better than petty violence like that, right up until he pulled a gun on me when we were nine. I was a bit more baffled on that than really freaked out, but that did show me something there. But even after doing that, he continued sticking by me – and I continued to shirk away.

But it's still melodramatic. Any way you look at it, it's sheer overreaction. But I guess that after Cartman's call that night, it just reminded me of what we went through two-three years ago. And then my mom, just getting in the way again. Throw in high school pressures, the constant assuming that I'm a total faggot because my only really good friend was Stan, and our friendship shared a creepy, unrealistic bond, and all of that peer pressuring shit.

"I guess I just had a breakdown," I voice out loud to Stan, and he nods. "And I just did the first thing I could think of."

I continue sitting there, staring into the small hole that I had dug earlier in a frantic mess. My ears faintly pick up the sound of Stan standing up, and suddenly I see his hand, and he's offering to help me back up. I accept it, and he pulls me up, and we walk back off to our small hick town together. He helps me along, throwing his arm over my shoulders, and says, "The sun won't be up for another few hours, Kyle, but we should probably get back. It's fucking freezing out here, and besides… You know… school."

"Yeah," I murmur, staring at my feet as I walk. I can't believe how incredibly dedicated Stan has been to our friendship. He's stayed with me this whole time, and it's like he knows me better than I know myself (although I haven't really even known myself recently, so it's not like that's an amazing feat). Somehow, I think he's known the whole time what's been going on.

And this idea, while comforting and making me feel nice and warm and fuzzy inside, is only occupying a small percentage of my thoughts. What I really can't get my mind off of is those eye sockets. That and the fact that even though it was pretty well established that there were no dead bodies, there was no killer, and that it was all me… I could still see those bodies. They should have disappeared, but they didn't. They were still there.


	18. Awkwardly

_Okay, I'm back! And I have the rest of this fic relatively planned out! We're still in for a bit of a long ride, but I'm gonna try to keep my once-every-two-weeks thing consistent (and I might even deliver some chapters earlier than that if opportunity strikes), so if you all just bear through with me, we'll see the end of this yet. I refuse to quit on this now, not after it's been this long._

_Also. I'm really, really sorry. I think this chapter just further officially proved the fact that I cannot write romance. But I felt that, for a slash fic, this was seriously lacking in the slash department. It's a shame I'm much more into the angst and violent aspects of it, though. Honestly, I spent quite a bit of time this night just picking at my heel instead of writing like I should have been._

_So yeah, I'm back, and you know the drill. Reviews are loved and provide me with more inspiration, as well as confidence. So please…?  
_

* * *

Man, I have no idea what's wrong with me. You'd think that things like that happening to someone, especially at a younger age, would leave a deeper impact on one's self, and due to this, surely they would recall it. I can understand toning down the detail, but outright forgetting and blocking it? Why the fuck would you do that? Or, rather, _how_ the fuck could you do that?

I'd really like to kick my mind's ass. I would love for it to be a physical entity that I could just stab, shoot, whatever. Just kill the damn thing and give myself a bit of peace at last. Because I don't trust it at all anymore. So even if it were to turn me into a robot, that would be okay, right? Because then I wouldn't have to think anymore, and without thinking, there's no anguish like this. Breathe, eat, sleep, repeat. I'd have no pleasures in life, but no agonies, either.

And I'm sure that this has been philosophized many times before, and I'm sure that each time the result has been that shutting your personality down is a bad idea. That it's suffering that's part of life, and that quitting is for the weak. And I don't disagree with this at all. But I'm just sick of it now.

If I had never blocked out the memories to begin with – if my stupid mind hadn't decided what it thought would be "best" for me – then there's probably a fair chance that I wouldn't even be in this situation right now. And while even good events come out of the worst scenarios, I think that I could deal without some of these good events. Even now I can't fully recall what Cartman did to me. And this scares me, because what if it was something really, really bad? Something that left even more of a permanent scar on me? Glancing down at my arm, I know that I did that myself. And while physical injuries are still pretty bad, I think people still underestimate mental and emotional damages.

And the worst part really is that I can't recall any of it – and therefore, it might just be festering inside me right now, waiting to burst. And I may never know of it or how to stop it, but I might just end up losing my mind one day due to all of these accumulating pressures, and now, sudden realizations, and worries. And if it wasn't for the person next to me right now, I don't think that I'd really care.

It's just so… Man, I… I don't even know. I can't even mentally vocalize it properly. No wonder I tried to kill myself. I didn't even have a small awareness back then, but it was still there. And now that I do have an awareness about it… If I had known that even more stress was going to accumulate from a suicide attempt, I would have done a better job at it, and made sure that I actually did it right. I wonder what saved me…

My eyes flick up to those of the person walking right besides me. His eyes are staring ahead, and he's slightly farther ahead of me, like he's the one leading us. And that's fine by me, because I really don't want to think for myself anymore. I'll turn myself completely over to Stan if need be. Be his bitch, whatever. We both have similar trains of thought. I'll let him control my life. Because I trust him… much more than I trust myself.

I just wonder how he knew what to do that night, only a few weeks ago – possibly just a month – when Cartman called me. There's no logical explanation behind that.

… Just like there's no logical explanation behind the fact that even though I know those corpses aren't there, I could still see and feel them. I don't like the absence of logic. I never have, but now I really, _really_ don't like it. It's not right. Only one thing has gone right for me recently. And even that one thing is expendable, because I'd still be friends with Stan either way. And if we really did love each other, anyway, then it would have happened, regardless.

It must be there. I know friendships can be strong, too, but this really can't be put into words. But at the same time, I'm not sure what separates this from friendship. Maybe Stan and I were never really friends to begin with? I mean, even before he was aware of this apparent attraction, he proved just how devoted he was to me. And even in friendship… It's abnormally strong.

I shouldn't be worried, but we aren't even walking together right now, and I keep reminding myself of those corpses. It's creepy. And I'm so uncertain of myself. So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours, and I can't wrap my head around it at all. I'd like to, and I'd like to get some sort of decency behind who I really am again, but I guess that's not going to happen. So I'll stick to overanalyzation until I finally succeed in killing myself, one way or another.

Everything's so bleak now. Fuck. This isn't right at all.

Feeling sudden chills, I shiver violently and quicken my pace, nestling right up to Stan immediately. He lightly acknowledges me, but really seems to be lost in his own thoughts. I want to know what he's thinking about so badly, but I don't think he's going to tell me. After all, he never told me about what Cartman did to me, though he probably just thought that I knew already. But even when things started to escalate recently—Damnit, Stan, you didn't think of this at all? I'd be angrier with him if I hadn't just decided to place my life in his hands. He fucks up and I die, because that's actually the only thing I have working for me right now.

We continue walking through the deep and freshly fallen snow, until I recognize where we are. We must have been going pretty slowly to have taken this long, but considering all of that goddamn thinking, I guess it fits.

Stan stops and I stop with him, still right up against him, just because I'm feeling cold all over. It actually is cold out, but there's an intangible chill that would remain present even in the greatest of heats. But still, this is Stan.

"Here, Kyle," he says, stopping right behind my house. "Go on in, I'll see you in a few hours."

I stare dumbly at my place of residence without moving forwards at all. My mom's in there. The last interaction I really had with her was a bit forceful, I guess, showing her that long scar and—oh, god, I guess that the way I showed her… I guess I took responsibility for it, as in, I basically admitted to her that I caused it myself with the way I said it and showed it and… I don't know anymore. But I feel suddenly uncomfortable with being in the same building as the woman who is currently one of the causes for ruining my life, or so I have identified. That and… I just really don't want to leave Stan.

He doesn't push me or anything, just quietly waits for me to take my own leave. Finally I take my eyes off of my home and turn them up to him. "Stan, I—I really don't want to go in there right now. Can I just… stay with you?" I don't know why I'm so uncertain about asking him; of course he'd accept me right away.

And without disappointing, he just says, "Yeah. Of course." Putting his arm around me, he pulls me in closer for a bit of a half-assed hug. "Maybe you just go in and get your bag though, for school." And he releases me, and pushes me forwards a little, and then just continues to stand there.

He has a point, and I think that by pushing me forwards, he's encouraging me to just take a step in for myself. I'm pretty sure he wants me to come back with him, though. He's not trying to push me away or anything. But I still feel really, really uncomfortable…

But the sooner I do it, the sooner I get it over with, I guess. So despite my physical weaknesses I succeed in hopping the fence and getting in through the back. From that point on, I have to completely deaden my mind and put all of my efforts simply on getting to my room and then getting the hell out.

The lights are all out, so everyone must be asleep. Quietly, quietly I get through and up the stairs, and I open the door to my room. Closing it quietly behind me, I breathe a small sigh of relief, and retrieve my backpack for school. Fully aware that I can't silence my mind for this long, I let my guard down slightly and wonder since when the hell did Stan concern himself with getting me to be fully prepared for school.

And that's when I feel an acute sense of awareness, of another presence behind the door, and sure enough, it slowly creaks open. And I'm not the one with my hand on the handle. I whip around, and my hair momentarily obscures my vision as I do so, but there I see Ike, standing at the door and rubbing his eyes.

"Kyle?"

Not caring how loud I am now (but still only limiting myself to a gasp of shock), I rush over to my window, backpack thankfully on my back, open it, and dive right out, rolling as I hit the ground. Ike has probably followed me with his eyes at least, but I don't want to look back. Now my mom's going to know that I was sneaking around all night, and—oh… god. I feel tears start to well up in my eyes as I make a desperate dash back towards Stan, succeeding in hopping the fence again. In near hysterics, I approach him and manage to choke out, "We've gotta go, _now_!"

I wouldn't call my panic unjustified as I dash ahead and Stan manages to catch up with me. This is just going to add a further black strike to my mom's list of me, and now that I have a better idea of my relationship with her, I don't want that. I don't want to go back, ever.

South Park scenery has always been repetitive, and so, we reach Stan's house in no time, and it doesn't feel like it took any time at all, really. My physical limitations catch up with my out of control mentality and I stumble, nearly collapsing in the snow but just barely succeeding in not doing so. Stan gasps for breath as we reach our destination and bends over to rest his hands on his knees. Upon regaining his own breath, he grabs me and slams me into his backyard fence, and forces his face up against mine.

"Kyle, what the hell is wrong with you?" he snaps at me, still breathing rather heavily. "What the fuck happened?"

I find myself unable to answer him as I stare up at him, and I feel a blush rush over my face. The awkward situation finally catches up to him and he pulls himself away immediately, hiding his own face from mine. I can still tell that he's blushing, though.

We shouldn't be blushing if we've already outed ourselves to each other.

He walks away from me, working his way over to the back gate. He fumbles with the latch, seemingly a bit distressed. I'm not sure why, but I can feel it, too, although I think it was more of a rush of excitement from a cliché setting. Stan really seems to be taking his time, though, and so naturally I get a bit frustrated and impatient with this. So I take his hands in mine, groaning inwardly at this next cliché, but it seems to steady him, anyway. So he opens it up, and from there on, we get into his house and into his room.

It's a good thing that his only sibling isn't home anymore, and all we have to worry about are waking his parents. And I'm sure that won't happen. It's not like we're going to be loud; we're probably just going to try to get a few more hours of sleep before we have to really get up. We've done shit like this before, stemming from years back. It's nothing new.

But it feels like it is now. And I think it might be, considering…

It could have been only a few hours at most. Already…?

Unceremoniously, I dump my backpack on the floor and just stand there, dumbly and awkwardly. Stan quietly mutters, "I'll be right back," and then he exits his room, leaving me to stand there alone, completely uncertain of what I am to do.

He shortly returns: a warm, wet washcloth in his hands. "Here," he says softly, passing it over to me. "You've… still got blood all over your face."

Oh, yeah… I had forgotten about that. It was only a few hours ago that I shot Cartman. It was only in the foot, but still. … Actually, I think this is cause to worry. If I hurt him that badly, and, well, upon sort of remembering what he's done to me, what if he comes after me even worse now? Oh, god. On the other hand, maybe it will give him a clear warning to stay the fuck away from me… But I don't think I can act that part out anymore.

I don't really want to think about Cartman anyway, so I scrub at my face as roughly as I can. Once I'm satisfied, I look up at Stan, and he weakly smiles and nods. We then just both stand there.

It was never this awkward before. Never. Maybe it was better left as undertones. It wasn't this bad when I was in here just an hour or two ago.

Stan gets tired of waiting before I do, and so, he takes his own initiative and gets back into bed. Hesitantly, I follow. Hesitantly, he lets me in.

Another cold chill comes over me, and I shudder. Stan feels this, and so, he actually pulls me closer to him. I feel myself slowly relaxing, and once again nestle myself in. Two kids, fourteen and fifteen, lying in the same bed. Thank god we're small in height. The blanket's pulled back up and we just cuddle. I shut my eyes before he does.

However, sleep doesn't come. I'm too peacefully content to let it come. Besides, I don't think I really even want it to come. I just want to enjoy this moment, and let it remain undisturbed. I think we're both quiet because it's still a touch awkward – I mean, this is still new. To the both of us. It's… nice. It's really, really nice.

If I could freeze the world, I would. Never before has anything felt so perfect to me that I don't even feel the compelling need to know. I just lay back and accept.

Stan doesn't seem to feel the same way, though, as he reaches further around me and forces me to face him. My eyes slowly open and subconsciously, it seems, we both lean in and once again, kiss.

I wrap my arms around him as he tightens his hold on me, and we remain that way for a bit longer, merely pulling away only slightly occasionally. Gay and cliché as it does sound, just staring into his eyes is enough to ripple excitement through me, and so I nestle even closer into Stan and allow myself to just sit back and enjoy this.

But even then, I feel the need to do more.

"Why?" I softly speak up, and Stan pulls back a bit to get a better look at me.

"Why what?" he asks, and I can see from his expression that he's in a euphoric state similar to mine. His eyes are almost glazed over, and yet they share the alert characteristic that they always do. He's still smiling, though, rather calmly. His eyebrows are raised a bit, though, and his hair is falling into his eyes a bit. I brush his bangs away in a futile attempt to clear them, but they fall right back into place, so I just answer him.

"Why would you bother sticking by me all this time? Wouldn't it have been easier for you to get a better friend? One that wasn't being targeted and singled out like I've been? One who would be easier to deal with?"

Stan still has the same grin on his face. He must be really, really sleep-deprived. And suddenly, all of the common sense I saw in him before seems to have washed away. But he leans back in on me anyway. "Dude, that's a stupid question. A bond like this doesn't just randomly come along, you know. Like I'd ever be able to find someone else as incredible as you are."

I guess that I can accept this answer. I mean, I understand completely what he's talking about. And I really am grateful for it, and just for Stan in general. Right now, I'd say that all of this crap really has been worth it, to lead me up to this point in time right now. I'm going to have plenty of shit to deal with later, but I guess I could zone out easily and just recall this moment.

But I don't want to think anymore, so I actually have a moment to recall. No more words are spoken between us as we go for each other once again. And again, and again, and again. And this is the happiest I have ever been in my life.

Just as we're about to pull away from each other – Stan and I, Stan and Kyle, yeah – we both hear a sudden sound, and freeze. Stan's the one facing the clock, and so he looks over to it, and his eyes widen. I shift my gaze over, desperately trying to see the time as well, and I manage to catch a glimpse. It's 6:59. Morning. The time when you're supposed to get up. And sure enough, Stan's alarm goes off.

If it wasn't winter, the sun would have alerted us long ago. But our only real signal is the mechanical beeping. I'm the one in the best position to shut it off, but I remain frozen, and so does Stan.

We remain that way for a few minutes, until Stan's mom yells out, "Stanley, turn off that damn alarm before I come in there and do it for you!" This jolts us out of it, and we flip our positions around quickly, as Stan slams his hand down on his clock and I fall off the bed. My landing creates a dull thud, and it's only now that I realize that my clothes are sticking to my skin and my hair has frizzed out a bit more than normal. I wrap my arms around myself and allow the rest of me to fall to the floor, so I'm not-so-conveniently lying on my side. Stan casually steps over me.

"Yeah, I'll be right back, dude," Stan says, and quickly opens and shuts his door. I, on the other hand, continue to lie there, dumbfounded as to what just happened. Or, rather, what's confusing me is the time frame. That had to have been at least, like… two hours. And it didn't seem like anything at all.

Crazy, dude. Just… crazy.

Slowly I sit up and run a hand through my hair. It's at this point that I realize I lost my hat somewhere in our little process, and so I look around for it, finally spotting it resting against a wall. Still too lazy to get up, I crawl over towards it and plant it back down firmly on my head, not even bothering to get all of my hair under it. For the first time in a while, I feel both confident and not murderous at the same time.

In fact, I'm still a tad too euphoric to bother to even attempt to give a crap about hygiene. Basically, I sit there and twiddle my thumbs. Growing bored of that, I open up Stan's window and stick my head outside, resting it on my arms, which are rested on the windowsill. There's a small, frosty breeze in the air, and I watch as the sun slowly rises. Soon, another presence is beside me, and we both kneel on the floor together, looking outside.

* * *

With the sun recently risen and the agonizing prospect of school looming before us now, Stan and I make our journey to the bus stop. We stand there dumbly, waiting for Cartman and Kenny to arrive. So much happened yesterday that I'm now waiting for a nice, relaxing day—but just one thing manages to catch my attention. 

"Hey, Stan, where's your hat?"

Stan looks upwards and feels the top of his head, only to grasp at his stringy black hair. "Oh. Um. Guess I forgot it." Stan blushes and I stare down at the ground, feeling the awkwardness between us once again.

And then, Cartman shows up.

He's dragging his foot a bit, and can't seem to make more than a few steps at a time. I notice this, but pretend to ignore it. Stan sees it too. I know that Stan knows what happened, but Cartman doesn't know that Stan knows, so I guess that's why Stan asks, "Hey Cartman, why are you walking like that?"

Cartman pulls up to us and his eyes narrow at me. I shrug and give a hapless grin. "Oh, no reason, Stan," he casually answers, shrugging it off. As a little experiment I decided to nudge him lightly in the foot, and he instinctively bends over in an attempt to grasp it before righting himself soon after, glaring at me furiously.

Feeling much cheerier, and deciding to be an asshole now, I lean down towards it and say, "Are you sure? It looks hurt. Are you okay, Cartman?"

Fatboy hisses back at me through clenched teeth, "Yes, _Kyle_, I'm fine, thank you."

Stan joins me in leaning down to look at it. "It doesn't look that way to me, dude," Stan says, a quizzical expression on his face. Fatass clenches his fists.

"No, you guys, seriously, it's _fine_," he stresses the last word, and I decide that I'm bored with antagonizing him, so I go back to staring ahead dumbly. Stan follows my lead, but Cartman glances over to us. "Hey, aren't those the clothes you guys were wearing yesterday?" he asks, raising his eyebrow.

"What? No!" Stan immediately shoots back, a bit too suddenly. I'm just thankful for the cool mountain air, since otherwise we'd probably look even more ruffled up that we do now, and Fatass just shrugs.

"Whatever."

The bus soon pulls up, and the three of us board – Cartman with some difficulty. Kenny doesn't show up, and we pull away as soon as Lardbutt gets on, the driver indifferent to all. As normal, Stan and I share a seat in the back together, while Cartman sits on his own. Normally he'd have Kenny to sit with, but Kenny isn't here.

He should have been back by now. He's gotten quicker and quicker at coming back. Where the fuck is he?

Despite having only gotten a few hours' sleep (if even that), I'm wide awake. Stan, on the other hand, doesn't seem to share the same ability as me, and his fogged brain forces his blue eyes to close. He leans his head in on my shoulder since I'm sitting at the window, and drifts off.

The bus goes through the rest of its stops, and as more and more of our peers board Stan and I get more and more stares, but it's not like they're anything new. Except this time it feels like it is, since this time, they'd be right in their silent accusations. I feel my skin crawl a bit, but remain still so that Stan can get a bit more sleep before we arrive at school.

But it doesn't take long enough, and we're there shortly. I look out the window at the front of the school, and Kenny isn't there. And then I feel another gaze fixated directly on me, and I slowly look up to see that it's Cartman. He's looking at me accusingly, and he looks incredibly pissed.

And it suddenly rushes back to my mind that Kenny is his best friend, and that it was Kenny's intervening a few years back that probably actually saved my life in the end, because then it gave Cartman his own Stan (except I don't think anyone else is as capable of being that close). And without a Kenny around…

And I already did shoot Cartman in the foot, so who's to say I hadn't shot someone else?

And who's to say it wasn't fatal?

… And who's to say that Cartman hasn't figured this out, and who's to say that he won't end up reverting back to the measures he did a few years ago?

Nervously, I gulp and slowly shake Stan. "We're here, dude," I whisper to him, and his eyes slowly flicker open. He stands up awkwardly, and traverses down the aisle awkwardly, and I follow him in tow, possibly even more awkwardly than him.

I think that was the last thing that was going to go good for me.


	19. Oh, Shit

_I think this chapter really proves what an IB kid I am. I mean, seriously. I've read a ton of other fanfics – not necessarily South Park, I mean, hell, I see it in some actual shows, too – and sometimes the whole aspect of school is totally ignored. And this freaks me out because in my IB kid brain I'm just going, "But it's SCHOOL! You can't miss anything or you're screwed! Why are you ignoring school? You need school! Aahddghgfidf!" and then I freak out._

_Also, I know that I've had some things being taken very unrealistically, so here's my meagre attempt at fixing that. It actually helps quite a bit with everything I want to have going on for these next chapters. So it's win-win, I guess._

_Because it's an awesome show, and for kicks, there's a _Simpsons _quote in here. Just a little fun fact. Enjoy, review please if it strikes you, and… yeah. This is fun._

* * *

… Crud.

I get off of the bus and look around the front of the school wildly. It would seriously make my day now to see a kid clad in orange, but he's not here. I mean, there's a chance that he missed the bus, right? Maybe he's in the actual building. Just because Kenny wasn't on the ride with us doesn't mean that he's still dead. There's still a high chance that he's come back to life, and then he'll be with us again, and I won't have a thing to worry about anymore. Life can return to normal, and it'll be like this whole thing never happened. Like it was just a pointless tale.

Stan notices my frantic look, and so he turns to ask me, "Dude, what're you looking for?"

"Kenny," I answer, without stopping my search.

"Why?"

"I just really, really need to see him right now," I answer, and continue looking. I can't believe it hasn't even been a whole day since I shot him. I really can't wrap my mind around that at all. There was such a lull throughout winter break, in which we just hung out together, like great friends. And over the course of less than twenty-four hours two of us ended up together, one of us ended up… dead and possibly not coming back, and the other one… I'm not sure. I'm not sure what's going on with Cartman.

But whatever it is, I'm kinda scared.

So I continue to gaze around, because if Kenny shows up, then Cartman won't go nuts on me again. And that's a good thing. But as I look around I catch sight of Cartman making his way towards us, with some difficulty, so I grab Stan's arm and start pulling him inside the school building. "Come on, Stan, let's get inside…"

"Dude, classes don't start for another few minutes. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, it's just… cold." Yeah. Cold. But walking into the heated building, I wish it wasn't so, because then it reminds me of the previous night and… Oh, god. I wish it was colder in here. I really, really do.

Hastily I drag Stan through the building, in an attempt to get as far away from Cartman as possible, and I cringe as people look at us strangely. I'm probably just being really irrational and paranoid here, though. I mean… Cartman didn't attack me before getting on the bus, right? Maybe he just wants to see me for… um… something. And the other students, the people our age, looking at us… That's… um…

Peer pressure sucks. It seriously does suck. And I may have been friends with Cartman long enough to the point where "Ha ha, I told you so!" doesn't effect me anymore, but coming from en masse? I… I don't know. I haven't known this whole time. Goddamni—

"Hello, Kyle."

I stop right in my tracks and hastily back up a few steps, letting out only a sharp gasp as Cartman pops up right in front of me. No matter how many times he pulls that, it's still creepy. It's always creepy.

"H—hi, Cartman," I stutter back in response. Stan looks between the two of us, perplexed.

"How are things going, Kyle?"

"Um…"

"Well, I presume?"

I back up a small bit more. "I… guess you could say that…"

"That's good to know," Cartman replies, still calm. Still creepy. "And how are you, Stan?"

"I'm, uh, good," Stan answers, confusion evident in his voice.

Cartman shoots a smile in his direction. "Awesome. So that's us three. Where's Kenny?"

Stan shrugs. "Who knows?"

I continue to back off, taking small steps at a time. One would expect me to freeze the second Cartman settles his hard gaze on me, but that's hardly the case. I continue moving backwards, still scared. I stop when Fatass speaks, though. "I think Kyle does."

Turning his head to look between the two of us, Stan raises an eyebrow. "What? Why?"

"Um…" I try to say something, but my mind draws a complete blank. Maybe Kenny's just taking an abnormally long time? Maybe this is my punishment for shooting one of my friends to begin with. But haven't I been through enough already? Is this really necessary? I mean… Kenny dies all the time! Why is this time any more special? "Um. I don't know what you're talking about, Cartman."

The kid in question makes a lunge for me, but fortunately his foot is hurt badly enough that it makes him even slower, so I can get out of the way quickly enough. "Don't play dumb with me!" he snaps, and I side over to where Stan is.

"Cartman, what the hell are you talking about," Stan asks, his voice flat. "Kyle said he didn't know. So he doesn't know." He turns his gaze over to me, and moves his arm so lightly that his hand brushes over mine. That had to be intentional. I blush a bit, and try to fade away, not appreciating this spotlight.

"Well, actually, I, um…" I shuffle my feet nervously. "I…"

That's when the warning bell rings. Five minutes to get to class. It's such a cliché, but, well… Thank GOD for that bell. What a wonderful, marvellous invention. Ringing has never sounded so beautiful to me before. "I… have to get to class, actually." And with that, I rush away to my locker. I don't look back. I don't know what Cartman is going to try to pull, but at the very least, he's still injured. Of course he wouldn't tell anybody. That would just provoke questions, and I'm sure that he'd rather not admit that a Jew hurt him.

Half-way through getting my things, my eyes widen as I realize that Cartman's locker is right near mine, in good old alphabetical order. And that my first period class is the same as his.

Crud, crud, crud.

But there would be other people around. So that means that he can't really do anything to me, right? Then again, Stan and I didn't acknowledge that yesterday…

Stan and I… oh god. Oh god. I just remembered what happened then. That massive fist fight, and… Oh no. There's no way we're getting off that easily.

And sure enough, I'm right. Stan and I end up arriving right outside the entrance of our English class at the same time, so we enter it together. Some of the early birds glance up to look at us, and sure enough, it looks like they're confused, too. Hell, I probably would be. Hell, I _am_, and I actually know what's going on.

Our teacher looks up, too. "Stan and Kyle… oh… um…" she starts off, taken aback. "You two should go to the principal's office. Now, please."

My boyfriend and I shoot each other apprehensive looks, and head back out, down to the office where something bad is definitely going to happen. We pass Cartman along the way, and I get spat on. Oh, god, he knows. I bite my lip, mental images from just a few years ago flashing by in my head.

_With my limbs forced to stretch out, each tied to a different bedpost, I looked, as best as I could, outside my window, after the fading figure, and then struggled to get myself free before my parents woke up. It was murder on my wrists and ankles, and sure enough they got scraped up a bit, and bled._

_I bit my lip and looked around quietly, inhaling deeply in a stupid effort to get the blood gushing out of my lower lip back inside me. I put a hand to my head and tried to ignore the sharp, shooting pains in it as I wandered out of the forest, disoriented and confused._

_Upon realizing what I had just done, I backed away sharply, but it wasn't fast enough before a forceful punch landed me straight in the gut, knocking the wind right out of me and near rendering me unconscious. But of course I wouldn't get that blessing. It hurt like hell._

_A mild fall down a small mountain that should have been much more mild. Who the fuck pushes people off of these things? The snow gathered around me. Like I became a snowball. It was exceedingly dizzying, and I didn't know when I was going to stop – that is, until I crashed into a tree and an explosion of white powder surfaced all around me._

Well, I'm thoroughly freaked out and disturbed, now. Nervously, I tug at the earflaps of my hat, and Stan turns his head to look at me. I look away and shut my eyes tight, relying on him to make sure that I don't walk into any walls.

"Kyle? What's wrong?" he asks, so, so softly. I feel guilty for not responding, but… I can't… I just can't…

He puts his hand on my back, both to guide me and… rub it gently, too. Surprisingly, this calms me down a lot, and I feel the terseness in my muscles slipping away. But this walk has already felt abnormally long to me.

The bell rings again, and Stan nudges me, so I open my eyes and find myself outside of the principal's office. I wince and hiss through my teeth, and open the door, and the two of us step in. We're greeted with surprise.

"What are you two doing here?"

I'm not really sure how to answer, but Stan seems to have us covered. "We were sent back down here. Does this have anything to do with—"

"Oh my, I thought you two would have been told by now. We informed your parents." The principal sighs and shakes his head. "Boys, you'll have to leave the premises. You've been expelled."

That final word is all it takes to once again snap me out of my calm state. My eyes widen and I jerk my head upwards in shock. I open my mouth to try to stutter out a "what?" but once again, Stan beats me to the punch. I guess he's just less mentally disturbed than I am right now. "What?" he shouts out. "Why? What?"

"Well," we're told, "you see, your behaviour yesterday… I'm afraid that's just unacceptable. Neither of you listened to reason, and the two of you were both quite angry. And there was just no excuse for either of your verbal tones or words. This was far beyond the limits of what is appropriate, and we felt it necessary to—"

I know that I should really be paying attention now. I know it. But I just can't. I… This is so, so bad. I thought things might get better. Sure, Cartman's pissed, but Kenny could still show up at any time, couldn't he? And… All I had to do was deal with that, and then I'd be… Well, there was the matter of my parents, too, but I'm sure that could be fixed… But now? Not now…

This has just totally killed my future. What school is going to take me in now? A shitty one, definitely. South Park is small; we only have one high school. I'll have to be bussed out to Denver, or something, and that's quite a distance away from here. Most of the surrounding towns are an hour's drive away, at the least. And even then, where am I going to end up? I'll have an expulsion on my record. So I'll get placed in a crappy, rundown school. Probably the access class, even, with all of the retards and my fellow maniacs. _I start fires!_ Oh, yeah, that's where I want to end up. And that's probably where I'm going to end up. Shit, shit, shit. I…

And then there's beyond that, and college. And… Oh god. I should have been expecting this, though, huh? You can't just do all of that bad shit I did, have one good night, and expect it all to disappear like it never happened. Of course not. So what's next? A law suit from Henrietta's parents? A lovely mental institution? I've been in one before, but this time… This time it's actually justified. Oh, god, this is not right. This is bullshit.

"This is bullshit!"

To my surprise, though, I wasn't the one who said that. That was Stan. I snap out of my trance and look over at him. He's obviously agitated: his facial features hardened and sharper. Hell, he's actually shaking a bit, though I'm not sure whether that's due to rage, anxiety, or both. His fists are clenched and jaw line set. "You can't—no! No! You can't possibly do this!"

"You should have thought of the consequences beforehand, Marsh," is the only reply he gets. "I'll call your parents, but you must leave, now."

"No!" Stan cries out once again. "No! You can't do that! Give us—Make us serve detentions for the rest of the year, give us suspensions, just—just not expulsions!"

The principal rests his head in his hand. "I can't suddenly start going soft, boys. Do you know what this school – or any school, really – would be like if that was all we did?"

"But—but we're fine now!" Stan shouts. He throws his arm around me and pulls me in closer. "See? We're fine! There's—there's nothing to worry about, no reason to punish us! All is well! You can't do this!"

However, he just gets ignored, as the principal is calmly dialling the phone. He speaks into it, puts it down, and dials once again. I'm too distracted to listen in to his side of the conversation, though. I just feel that I can't do that. I feel like an idiot, for one thing. How could I have forgotten about our fight yesterday? I mean… That was still pretty big. And how could I have thought that nothing bad would have come out of it? There's more to life than Stan. I can't act so rashly. Or, well, I guess it doesn't matter anymore.

No. It really doesn't matter anymore. Because by this point, my future is totally ruined. So who cares what I do now? I don't. Unless this gets sorted out – which it obviously wont', despite all of Stan's current efforts – I'm basically screwed over.

The worst part of this is that I'm probably turning this into a bigger deal than it really is. But that's my mom instilled in me once again, isn't it? The whole "I must do well to succeed" thing. And this isn't doing well, therefore, I will not succeed, therefore, I will fail. And this is my entire future ahead of me.

And then there's the near future to worry about, too. My mom's probably going to come pick me up. She's probably known this whole time that I've been expelled, and just never got the chance to inform me because of how I've been acting. So there's going to be pent up rage, and, oh god, I'm going to get it _now_. Or, rather, _soon_. When she actually shows up.

Crud.

The principal nods, says goodbye, and hangs up the phone as I snap back into reality. "Your parents should be here within a few minutes. Please leave my office."

But Stan isn't finished yet. "We deserve some answers, at the least! If everything's fine now then what's the big deal?"

"Well, it wasn't just you two. Have you forgotten how you treated our staff? Completely unacceptable. I'm just repeating myself now. Please leave."

I find myself going numb, but by some will other than my own, my legs straighten as I stand up and move towards the door. Stan stands up, too, but rather that following me, he walks forwards and leans down on the desk in front of him, looming his face in near the principal's. "One more point – Kyle's crazy, and I was fighting back in self-defence. How can you expel over something beyond our control?"

Those words stop me right in my tracks, and I turn around. Barely able to suppress my tears, I ask Stan in a shaky voice, "So I'm still crazy, huh?"

"Well… yeah," is all Stan can reply with. "I thought we had that established by now."

That shouldn't have affected me. Really, it shouldn't have. But that was just another additional worry and negative idea thrown on me, and I just can't take this anymore. I knew things would come crashing down on me. I knew it.

So I open up the door and exit. I exit the school building and sit on the front steps, resting my head in my hands and looking down dejectedly. I hear Stan come up beside me.

"Look, Kyle, I—"

"It's okay Stan. You're right. It's okay."

The two of us sit there and stare off into space for a bit. I have no idea what Stan is thinking, but I really wish that I did know. I don't know why. Maybe it's just more comforting to hear someone else's troubles? But we have the same ones… So someone else's view point? Because I can't see one bit of silver lining in mine.

Two different cars soon pull up, with two different women in them. I bite my lip and nearly start to cry when I see my mom. I turn my gaze over to Stan, who's just staring out, like the world is dead to him. I scoot over a bit closer to him, but that's all I do.

Mrs. Marsh and my own mother wave for us to come over. Stan acknowledges but I don't. I find myself frozen. I just can't go over there, I can't. My best friend—boyfriend gets up and walks a few steps forwards before turning around to see if I'm coming. I'm not. "Kyle, come on," he says, and I get up and follow.

Stan's mom looks pretty pissed, but my mom just looks tired and frustrated. I linger back again, a bit nervously, but Stan keeps walking forwards, and I really don't want to be left behind, so I follow him. Once we're close enough, the worst thing that could possibly happen to me now happens.

"Stanley, I don't think you should hang out with Kyle anymore. At least not for a while."

"W—what?"

"You too, Kyle."

I can't even say anything to that. What are you supposed to say to something like that? When suddenly, your whole future's been taken away from you, and then even more suddenly, the only person who's keeping you sane is gone as well? What are you supposed to say; what are you supposed to do?

Nothing? Something? Fight?

Die?

This time the tears start trickling out. No. I can't handle this right now, I can't—

Stan and I look at each other and then hug. We hug until we're snapped at to let go. If they're so angry at us, why didn't they show it more yesterday? Or maybe they did. I don't know. I guess I just wasn't really around.

_Fuck,_ I think as I have to let go of Stan. So I go into my mom's car and sit down in the front passenger seat, do up my seat belt, and violently throw my head back into the headrest and sulk miserably and filled with teenaged angst.

My mom gets in, too, and starts the car up. Great. The moment I've really been dreading now—I wonder if it can overshadow what just happened. Normally I'd say "probably not," but I don't really know at this point anymore, so I'm just not going to make any assumptions.

"Kyle," she starts off, much softer than I thought she would be. "I'm—I can't deny this, I am angry, but we're not going to get anywhere if all I do is yell at you. Last night was quite the eye-opener, and it showed me that I have been neglecting you and putting my own values first. And I shouldn't be doing this. It's not even the first time that it's happened. So we need to talk. Ike told me that he saw you this morning, but that you left rather quickly…" She stops and pauses at this point, but I don't say a word. Rather, I just close my eyes half-way, and coolly regard the windshield and its view through half-lidded eyes. Oh, and wish horrible things upon my brother. Seriously, at this point, I'm really not in the mood for him ever again. "Don't you have anything to say to that? This means that you have to talk, too," my mom says, but I still refuse to respond.

Really. Why should I? It's a bit late to start taking things sensibly now, isn't it? After everything's already been completely ruined for me, just when there was a small bit of a hope. Yeah. No. I don't care anymore.

"Alright, I'll start off, then," my mom continues, and turns down another street. I blow a strand of my hair away from my face. Christ, my hair sucks. I got it from her. I wish that she'd shut up already. "I'm not quite sure what we're going to do yet, but I'm going to start looking into other schools. You'll go to counselling, and—"

"I don't want to go to another school, and I'm not going to counselling."

"What?"

"You heard me," I coolly shoot back. Counselling was what got me in this mess to begin with, and twisted shit around for me to the point where I believed that I was insane. And then it turned out that I really was. And this is supposed to help me again?

"Kyle, you need an education—"

I turn and stare out of my side window. "Why? My future's already ruined, isn't it? This is just more unnecessary work."

"Your future is not ruined; you'll just have to work at it. Things will be fine. Just because I'm going to start being a bit more flexible doesn't mean you'll have complete control. You're smart, Kyle. Don't let that go to waste."

"I already have," I mutter under my breath, really quietly. My mom says something in response, and continues talking, but I tune her out. I'm pretty shocked by this new approach, since I thought that I was going to get my head ripped off. I guess that thrusting my scabbed arm in her face did a number on her. But I can't really show it, because I feel so emotionally dead and worthless now. There's nothing left for me.

I would just as easily sneak out and go meet up with Stan, but I don't know what's happened with him at all. And who knows if I ever will know? I'm being overly pessimistic here, I'm aware of that, but there actually is nothing left for me. I'm basically fucked in every aspect of life already, so, screw this.

We get back to our house. I recall how just a few hours earlier I had been so scared to enter it, whereas now, I enter it with ease. Nobody else is home, naturally. It's still just the morning, so Dad's gonna be at work, and Ike is at school. So there really isn't anything else for me to do other than just mope around. I don't feel like testing my limits by going off and watching TV, or doing something else relatively enjoyable like that, so I simply go up to my room and sit there.

And that's it. The entire day passes by and I turn down the offer of lunch as I just sit there, staring blankly at one of my walls. What else can I do? I have nothing to work on. I could pray, but that would accomplish about just as much as sitting around and doing nothing. Hell, it would be more frustrating than that. But still, maybe part of the reason I've been so screwed over is because I have been neglecting a more spiritual aspect of life…

That doesn't make any sense. Tons of people ignore god and nothing happens to them, except for death, which happens to everyone, anyway.

Still… What's there to lose?

So I get off my ass, stand up, and look out towards my window. I walk over to it, since it is facing east, after all. So that fits. And I stand there, and try to think of what to say, when I realize that I've forgotten everything. I've forgotten it all.

So instead I'm left to just stand there, staring outside of my room like an idiot, and watch the sun set. It's still winter, after all, so it still sets relatively early. And quickly, too, it seems. Or maybe I've just totally lost track of time. I don't know.

But I hear a voice outside of my door at some point, and, not wanting a repeat of what happened earlier this morning, for the second time today, I open up my window and leap right out of it. If anyone ever entered my room and saw me, well, I don't know about it – but I don't think that anybody did.

The sky is pitch black with only a few stars shining through. I open up the back gate and exit through there this time, rather than hopping the fence, but I don't bother closing it. The snow isn't as present as it was before, but it feels colder out, for some reason.

I don't know what I'm doing. But it doesn't really matter anymore. I let my feet carry me wherever they want to go, giving myself over to my subconscious, since I can't give myself over to Stan anymore. Sure, my subconscious is probably more dangerous, but it's all over now at this point anyway, isn't it?

I shut my eyes, lean my head back, and just continue walking. Through some kind of miracle, I don't march straight into a tree or anything. Rather, a bit later, I fall through a hole and land on top of something frozen. Opening my eyes, I see that I've led myself back to the two frozen corpses.

Avoiding those compelling eye sockets from the first corpse, I look at the one underneath it. Through no explainable action of my own, I suddenly slam my fist into it, and feel a sharp pain in response. But the pain isn't in my fist. I nearly faint.

Of course I'd end up leading myself out here, huh? I guess that if I could just solve this, I could be a bit happier. Because these bodies are so familiar to me, but I have no idea how they are. They're right in front of me but it's like something's blocking them.

But they aren't really even here, so what do I know? Maybe I should just die here and leave a third trace of death.

… No. My mind is doing some serious flip-flopping here, but really, no. There's got to be something else out there for me. Things happen for a reason, don't they? Even if it's just some petty and dumb reason? So maybe I should stop focusing on my destroyed past, focus on my destroyed future, and have fun screwing it up even more.

Yeah.

The last time I got separated from Stan, I had some pretty bad homicidal thoughts. So why not again? There's no good reason as to why it shouldn't happen. And this time, I really don't have anything to lose. Except Stan, if there's some chance we get reunited again.

… Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm so goddamn confused, I have no idea what to do, and it's fucking cold out here. I guess I should head back home.

With a bit of difficulty due to my limbs being stiff, I hoist myself out of the small pit I had dug earlier, and start walking back home. I know the way pretty well by now. But still, I'm so confused, and since I don't know what to do, maybe I just shouldn't do anything. But not doing anything is frustrating. So my walking turns to just taking steps forward, and kicking violently out at the snow in each step.

I continue along in this way for a while, watching the snow fly up with each kick, before I kick my foot into something that makes me stop all together and nearly fall over from the sudden force, as well as the pain. I lift my left foot to see if it's alright, and to my surprise, I now see a knife embedded in my shoe. The same knife that I used to hurt myself and threaten Ike way, way earlier.

I keep my foot above the snow, watching as blood starts to seep through. A maniacal grin spreads across my face as realization dawns upon me and I pull the knife out. More blood starts to flow. My smile gets even more crazed as my eyes light up and rove over the mess. You're right, Stan, I am still insane.

I'm not sure how my foot was cut, but I don't care. It's a bloody mess, but otherwise, everything's still intact. I can't outrun Cartman anymore if it comes to it, but I really don't think that matters anymore.

Despite the pain, I continue walking, just more normally now – and with the knife's handle firm in my grip. The snow isn't getting kicked up anymore, but rather, two trails of blood are left as I continue making my way: one from my foot, the other from the blood dripping down the blade. I'm just going in a different direction now.


	20. Misplaced Serenity

_Well, with this chapter, I reach the 100 000 word mark (yay!), and Kyle is disgustingly out of character. Hopefully I can stick to the more subtle character traits, at least._

_I'm switching over to weekly updates. One reason is that I want this fic done, and I still have quite a bit left to do with it. The other reason is because pretty much all of my regular reviewers reviewed on the day I first posted this, so if you guys are going to review that quickly, I might as well speed up my writing a bit._

_I've really gotten myself back into FullMetal Alchemist (the only anime/manga I will ever like. Ever) since the end of 2005 recently, too. Figured that I'd mention that because I've mentioned my other obsessions outside of South Park in here before, and this one came back pretty strongly._

_Fun fact: If you replace some of the previous content in the older chapters with something else, with the original ending I had in mind, this would have been the last chapter of this fic. Fortunately, I thought up a much better ending. I still really, really just want to finish this thing now, though. Hopefully that can get done quickly, so enjoy._

* * *

I sit here, somewhere within the forest just outside of my hometown, surrounded by trees. I flick my eyes over to Henrietta's decently-enough preserved corpse, and continue to nick off bits of skin. Just a little bit at a time, like thin, thin layers. I don't really have anything else to do right now, anyway.

My back is leaned up against a tree, and the overhead branches are only lightly dusted with snow. I glance up at the sky now, still nicking away at the skin, choosing to look at a wide, open space instead. I know what's before me, anyway.

I've been spending a lot of late nights away from my house.

Around me are a few stupid animals. Mice, mostly. They're dead. And mutilated, too. Not too long ago one popped its head out from under the snow right by my feet as I was just sitting there, so I decapitated it. It's a bit disturbing at how easy it is to take another's life away, even if it's not human. Because really, since when is a human's life that much more important? We're horrible creatures.

I wonder how bad that makes me.

It hardly stopped at just that one mouse, though. Some other stupid ones came up, so I killed them, too. An owl came along. I managed to hurt its wing, so it fell to the ground, and then I killed it, as well. I'm not sure how long ago that was. Couldn't have been too long. I'm just sitting around a pile of death, I suppose, although there aren't really that many carcasses here. And they're all small, anyway. Nothing a cat wouldn't have done if it had the chance.

Except a cat would probably do it for food. I didn't have a reason. Not even for fun. I just did it. Not even because I could. I just did it.

I feel so blank and emotionless now, because although my future was already ruined before, I've definitely screwed myself over now. Then again, maybe I haven't. I mean, if Henrietta's body is still here, then I guess that means nobody comes here, right? So I might not even have to hide anything at all. Just cover my tracks up a little bit. And then things can go on as normal.

Except I don't think my mind will, even if I have Stan with me. Maybe I pushed myself too hard this time. Or maybe my body just decided to act on its own. I don't have any real thought behind this.

Or maybe it's just that those who come to this particular area are doomed. I mean, Henrietta and I came here, and she died while my sanity started to decline.

I look away from the sky and back down to my feet, and I continue slicing away at the skin just a little bit at a time.

I'm so not who I was anymore.

A kid came along not too long ago. I don't know why. I have to kind of wonder what the hell he was doing out here anyway, especially at this time, because looking at him right now, he was what, five? Six? So what the hell was he doing here?

Maybe it was just plain stupidity, the feel for exploration, to go on an adventure. Well, I'll never know. I guess nobody else will, either.

I'm… I'm only mildly disturbed by what I did. But still, the fact that I feel just a little disturbed does leave a bit of a glimmer of hope. But it's so small and insignificant that… I don't really think so. No. Couldn't be.

He didn't really know anything, but he saw, and I didn't think. I'd love to say "I don't remember what happened" but I do, all too clearly. I guess I just didn't feel anything when I killed a human child.

Oh well.

So now I'm just sitting here, casually nicking away at his skin and watching the blood pool around him. I did what I must have threatened myself to do to myself a while back. I slit his throat. Reaching up to touch the cut on my neck, though, I don't think I did that. Which just further complicates manners.

But what's done is done, and I should really focus my mind on the future now. Like, for one thing, how the hell am I going to get home? It's freaking painful to walk on my foot. I'd take my shoe off and inspect it, but the blood flow is finally slowing down, and I don't want to risk it starting up again – at least not yet. But I can't stay out here, especially in case people are looking for me. Because what if they found me like this? It doesn't look too good, sitting amongst a bunch of dead bodies, two of which are human. And how am I going to explain things once I get home? I'm covered in blood, and most of it isn't mine.

Also, I don't want to leave the knife anywhere, just in case – I'd rather keep it in my possession. So then there's the matter of smuggling that back in, as well. But I do need to get home. And figure out something that will explain this all away.

Groaning, I carefully stand up, wincing as I shift my left foot's position and put weight on it. It hurts really fucking badly, but looking over at all of the dead things around me, I don't think I'm in any position to complain. At least we all have something in common, and that's that we're all bloody messes.

Bloody messes… Oh yeah, there's way too much blood all over me to have just come from my foot. If I'm going to explain this, I should probably at least create some more cuts.

I don't really want to do this, and I don't enjoy it, and it hurts like hell, but I know that if I'm going to have any chance at at least hiding this, I've gotta do it. So I roll up my pant legs and sleeves and spend a minute or two cutting myself up, doing my best to avoid any arteries or veins. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts. How could anybody possibly willingly do this to themselves. It's not even relaxing. I think I prefer hurting other people.

Satisfied enough and not really willing to do anything else to myself, I roll my sleeves back down and try to ignore the fact that these clothes are going to get even bloodier. That's not important right now, but it's still grating me a little in the back of my head. I move forwards, but it's hard, both from being stiff due to all of the cold, and all of this new horrible, stinging pain. Oh, god, it's awful. Why am I only noticing it now?

Maybe I've just calmed down and returned to my senses after having a bit of a breather. It'd be nice if I could return to my senses permanently.

And then it hits me, and I realize that there's possibly a way I could work this to the meagre advantage I can get. So I cut off a nearby pine branch, try not to let the blood drip on the ground so much, and sweep away at the snow behind me as I move on.

I make it back to the point where all of this must have started, and I ignore the bodies this time. I ache all over so badly that I don't want to look at them this time. I'm seriously not in the mood. This is where I drop the pine branch, figuring that if the blood trail starts here, I'll be safe enough. It's not like those bodies are real, anyway. Nobody will see them, and nobody will think that I did anything.

* * *

I don't know what time it is. I don't know how much time has passed. The world is basically just a big, dark, foggy haze all around me. I barely even know what I'm doing. My vision is horribly blurred and I feel weaker and weaker by the second. I'm only vaguely aware of the warm, red liquid seeping through my clothing and covering my skin, but the feeling of stinging pain is still clear enough.

But all I can do is put one foot in front of the other, so that's all I'm going to do. Eventually I'll stumble upon my own house, stumble in the literal, non-exaggerated sense. That's what I'm doing now; my body slouched over as I make my way through the back alleys. Hopefully nobody else finds me. Oh, god, I hope that nobody else finds me.

I look back over my shoulder and, squinting my eyes in hopes that it'll make things just a bit clearer, I see my own place of residence a few houses back. "Shit," I mumble to myself, turning around and sloppily making my way back. I feel the knife slowly slip out of my grasp and drop down into the snow. I decide to go through the front.

I open the door up, and see my mother in the kitchen. I can just barely make out her movements as she turns towards me. "Who could possibly be here, at this ti—Kyle!" she cries out, and I stumble in, trip on the floor, and let my body give out under me as I collapse. The carpet rushes up to meet me and fill my vision with the parts that haven't already faded away. And then my ears close off, and my eyes shut, and I lose all feeling and consciousness.

* * *

The hazy black void is slowly replaced by another, brighter setting. I can feel the sunlight brushing against me, and I quickly shut my eyes again from the light as it gets into them. Still, it feels nice and warm, though. Judging by a steady beeping noise, there are most likely various machines around me and in this room. I'm lying down, on my back this time. And it's a hell of a lot comfier than a carpet.

Realization dawns on me suddenly, and my eyes shoot open as I shoot up. Which was a bad mistake, because god, that's painful to do. Last night's events suddenly come flooding back to me, and I groan and slap my forehead. Willing myself to lose all strength again, I flop backwards and get a good look at my right arm, which is now right in front of my face. It's all bandaged up, clean and white with red gathering around in the center. Mm. Blood. I look over to my left arm, and realize that the long cut on it has faded away. It's not there anymore. But my left arm is bandaged up, too, and the blood is still visible through the bandages.

I probably went overboard on hurting myself in order to create a good story. I didn't even get a chance to use it—

Hey, yeah! Where… where'd my mom go? She'd still be here, right? I look out the window again and confirm that it must be morning. The sun's up, so it's not a ridiculously early time in the morning. Oh well – at least I won't be late for school.

A small smile comes to my face on that realization. Ha. Yeah. I won't be late ever again.

I suck.

This scene feels too similar to me.

And as with before, the doctor comes in. My eyes flit over to him and I wipe the smile off my face, attempting to appear less psychotic than I already do. And than I already am. Man, fuck.

"Well, Kyle," he says, sitting down at my bedside, "you're in an even bigger mess than before. And so soon once again, too. You've lost quite a good deal of blood, and your mother told me that you entered your house and then collapsed. Can you tell me what happened this time?"

What the hell? There's no point in beating around the bush. I actually do know what happened this time, and besides, it's not like I'm going to gain anything from lying about it. "Yeah. Yeah, I can," I answer. "I… I went a little nuts, and I cut myself. A lot, I guess." I glance over my arms, and I wonder how badly my legs are hurt and bleeding.

"Yes… yes," he says. "And when was this?"

"I… don't know," I truthfully answer. "Sometime last night. Maybe it was the evening. I don't know."

"Oh." Maybe he can see that I'm actually being honest here. "And… Why did you do it?"

"I… don't know," I say once again, and blink. I can't very well say that I did it to make an excuse for myself, because then, well, an excuse for what? I can't openly say that I killed living entities. But it's not like that answer is a complete lie, either. I'm really not totally sure about why I did it, especially so much as to have made me lose that much blood.

The doctor blinks back in response. "I see," he says. "Well, Kyle, I need to go talk over some things with your mother, but I'll be back soon, okay? In the meantime, try to get a bit of rest."

I weakly smile in return and lay my head back. This whole scene feels disturbingly calm to me, especially compared to the last time when I was here, when I was freaked out of my mind. But now, even my mentality is… calm. It's so serene. I hear a bird twitter a bit outside, and think back to that owl I mangled. And I continue to remain calm.

Not too long after, as far as I can tell, the door opens once again and my mother enters. "Oh, Kyle!" she cries out, and rushes to my side. I can't really stand to look at her face right now, though, so I turn my head away. "Kyle!" she cries out again. "Is this because of school? Is—is that why you're in here, like this?"

"… No," I reply after a long pause. "No. It's not that."

"Then why? Kyle, I'm your mother. I hope you can trust me well enough to confide in me…" Her voice trails off, and I'm not really too sure how I should respond. So I just remain silent and mull things over in my head a bit. "Bubbaleh… Please? I just want to help."

I blink and then shut my eyes wearily. This is such a change. I'm not meaning to come off as a total jackass here; it's just that I'm having a hard time trying to decide what to say while I'm still teetering on the brink of consciousness. I had a plan, a good idea that would have made slicing myself up like this all the more worth it, but I can't remember it now. "Mom—" I start, but then realize that I have nothing to follow up on that. "Mom—I… Oh, fuck…" my words fade away and I sigh. "I… I can't think right now." To my surprise, my eyes feel watery now. I think it's just from boredom, or exhaustion, or both. I mean. I'm not sad. What do I have to be sad about?

"It's okay, Kyle," she says, and pulls me into a light hug. I simply continue to just lie there, limply and not responding. "I'll come back later."

My head hurts. I want to go over this, go over all of the pros and cons and figure out what I'm to do next, but I can't organize my thoughts. I couldn't do it all too well before, but now… Just… Fuck. What was that idea I had last night…?

* * *

Once again, my eyes slowly crack open and I find that it's darker outside now. Not night time, though – more like evening. The sun's starting to set. Surprisingly, though, I feel a lot better. I didn't realize it before, but I must have been feeling pretty sickly and nauseated before I fell asleep. I don't necessarily feel all that great now, but I feel better. Everything's clearer.

… And nobody's here, so I wonder what the hell I'm supposed to do. I look around my hospital room for a bit, but upon seeing nothing of interest, and feeling too weak to get up, I fixate my gaze on the ceiling above me. At least I can think a lot more clearly now, I'm just not too sure what to think about.

I wonder what the hell those doctors do to you when you've fallen unconscious. Tests of all sorts, mostly, I guess. Especially when one has a terminal disease, and they just don't know what it is. Diagnostics. It's been a while since I've been the victim of that.

Ha. That used to be why I ended up in the hospital. People would stop freaking out whenever I was admitted, because it just got so damn common and everyone was used to it. But when the situation changes… When you almost die in a different way, suddenly everyone becomes acute to you and your reactions. I don't think my mother's ever paid me this much attention in recent years when it didn't come to my grades. Stan, Cartman, and Red all developed new obsessions with me. Butters started talking to me more, Token and I stopped fighting (we really haven't done that in a long time), Ike seemed to start following me around a bit more than he used to, which was never much to start with. Then there're the people who have to flock around you, like the doctors, for one thing. And when you act up, authoritative figures, like at school.

It's like I've been trying to get some me-time, just some time alone with my mind, and I haven't really gotten the chance to because I have other things to worry about. Things that concern other people. The people who won't leave me alone.

Maybe that's it. The near-death experience was a different one: self-infliction rather than illness. So it jolted more of a surprise that I wasn't used to, and—I don't know.

I look around the room once more, and then note how it looks like nobody's going to come back. Maybe this is my chance to get that me-time. Without anybody around me. No staff bustling through the door, no family following them, no friends sneaking in to see you. Like that first morning. That very first morning. When Stan came in—

"Stan!" I suddenly cry out, through no willing action of my own, and with my delusional mind half-expecting him to jump out from under the bed, just like last time.

Of course, that doesn't happen, because Stan's not here. Who knows where he's being forced to reside now? But it does garner a response from elsewhere, as the door opens and my mom comes back in. "Where's Dad?" is the first thing I say, surprising myself, but not her, it seems.

"He's at home, looking after Ike," she responds, raising her eyebrows. "Are you feeling better, Kyle?"

"Um… Yeah," I answer, leaving it off at that.

My mom takes a seat next to my bed. "You know Stan isn't here, Kyle. He's not going to come here. Mrs. Marsh and I had a talk—"

"NO!"

My mom looks at me strangely once again. "'No?' Bubbaleh, that's how it's going to have to work out for the next little while, until we both figure out what to do next. But until then, we decided that it would be best for you two to not see each other—"

"No! I mean, does this look like it's been 'best' for me?" I ask, sitting up a little bit more and gesturing over myself. I just remembered that idea I had. Make her think that I did this because of Stan. "You take away my best friend from me—This is what happened! That's why it happened, Mom! That's why I'm back here in the hospital!"

All the woman can do is sit there and blink, though. "Is—is that so?" she asks dumbly, and I nod. "Well, if that's the case, then… I guess I'll just have to have another talk about this with Mrs. Marsh. But Kyle, are you sure this is why?"

"It has to be!" I cry out once again. I try to will myself to cry so that the show gets better, but I just can't seem to do that. "I—I need him! Why did you have to separate us to begin with, huh? What good does that do?"

"Kyle, we were told that you two got into a bad scuffle at school. That you two were incredibly abusive too each other. You're really both to blame for your expulsions," she says, and I stare at the hospital floor. She's right, but… Still. It's Stan. Stan. "Something must have happened, and you two need time to cool off."

"But—but we're fine now! We're the best of friends again, Mom! It's—why separate us? We've never been a bad influence on each other before, something just got a bit too out of hand, but it's been fixed! Why? Why are you doing this?" I really wish I could cry. Why can't I?

My mom just sighs wearily in response. "Well, then think of it as another form of punishment, if you have to have more reason. Mrs. Marsh and I both agree that—"

"Oh, fuck you and Mrs. Marsh!" I cry out once again, and immediately clap my hands over my mouth, my eyes widening over the realization of what I just said. However, upon getting no reaction – which is pretty surprising – I continue talking. "I mean… Don't you think expulsion is punishment enough? It's destruction to our futures! The least you could do is make our present a bit more pleasant as you're figuring out what to do!"

All Mom does is raise an eyebrow once again, like she wants to bring a point up, but decides that it's not the best move to make. I wonder what she was thinking, but I guess I'm not about to know.

Silence fills the room up even more than before as neither of us say a word. I've said my bit, and it's her turn to start talking now, but she has nothing to say. The two of us just sit there. I'm lost in my own thoughts once again, but I don't know what she's doing. "Well?" I ask, expecting something, but I'm not given a reply. "What is it?" Still nothing. Fuck.

I wanted people to stop flocking around me, but it's harder to get lost in yourself when there's someone else in the room with you. It's just the feeling of another presence, I guess, that distracts me. And this feels way, way too calm. It shouldn't be calm, it's not a calm scene, but it is. What the fuck?

I actually turn my gaze directly on my mom for the first time today, and I realize that her mouth is moving. And I must have just inadvertently tuned her out. But I guess I have more important issues to deal with than my mom, right? But I'm pleading with her… I'm pleading with her to get Stan back for me. I need him—

No. I don't need Stan. It'd be nice to have, but he's not what I need right now. The first thing that I need is a stable mind.

I… I need…

I admit to myself, for the first time, and out loud, "I need help. I really, really need help, Mom."

I see a small smile curve up on her face. "Kyle, that's something I wanted to talk with you about. When the doctor told me what you had told him, he said that counselling would probably be a good idea. I'm so happy that you came to that conclusion yourself. I just want what's best for you. You can make it through all of this."

"… Yeah, yeah, I guess I can." I turn my head away from her once again. I don't know why I keep on doing that. I should be grateful to have a mom that actually cares for my well-being, I guess. "You want me to go to counselling?"

"Yes. Sometimes it just helps to let things all out—"

My own mind cuts her off once again. Go to counselling, just to let things out? What's the point of that? I can just do that with Stan. If it's to get advice with something, well, I'm sure Stan can provide that, too. And it'd be easier to tell Stan, because we're so much closer, and who knows? He might be able to relate. And it'd all be sincere because we trust each other, with no real secrets kept between us. What's the need for a counsellor, then?

But I don't say this out loud. I glance back at the only other occupant of this room with my peripheral vision, and I see that her lips have stopped moving. "Okay. I'll… I'll try it out, then." I guess it's not solely pointless. I'm feeling pretty neutral on the subject right now, actually.

"That's wonderful, Bubbaleh! I think you're a lot more stable now, so I'll go talk to the doctors about getting you home, and about setting up an appointment." And with that, she leaves the room, leaving me with myself again.

… No. It couldn't be that I just wanted my own space. Not if I'm able to tune people out that easily with my own mental ramblings. But they're still all coming up around me, all due to one incident, and I'm still not entirely sure as to how that started.

I glance at the bloody bandages around my arms, and lift up the blanket to look at my legs. It's pretty bad there, too. My mom said that I could work through this, and I agreed with her. But am I really worth it? I… I killed another human. A small life blooming with unfulfilled potential, even. Do I really deserve a happy ending now? Did I ever deserve one to begin with? Why am I on the road to recovery when others need it more than I do? When others don't deserve the crap happening to them? When they have real, legitimate problems? Ones that they didn't cause, because they have enough sense to not mess themselves up?

It's gotta be something that everyone asks themselves at some point in their lives, but really, _why me_? Why did I get stuck with this crap? Why is it only me?

_I'm such a hypocrite,_ I think to myself as my mom guides me out of the hospital. I have counselling tomorrow already. I guess I do need the help if I'm capable of doing some of the most disgusting acts men can think of, and yet I'm not capable of feeling any negative emotion other than anger.

Only now do the tears come, and I rub at my eyes as I get into the car, trying to stop them. I don't want them now. I don't want them ever again, unless the pain is physical and legit. Because that's the only time I should cry.


	21. Nothing

_Honestly, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore, but things are going to start picking up after this chapter, I'm pretty sure. I promise. I just somehow managed to squeeze some more things in, but I finally managed to get the lead-in for the next chapter that I wanted in this one, so something will actually happen now._

_But really, now, I just really, really want this fic done, so the weekly updates are continuing, despite my massive homework load for this weekend (that I actually managed to get finished before really getting to work on this). Enjoy, I guess, since you guys do seem to be liking it still. I swear, things are actually going to pick up._

* * *

I can't help but let my mind wander a small bit towards what's going to happen to me now. After all, it's natural to just think in a car ride, isn't it? Maybe I'm just overreacting about Cartman now, but honestly, in my current physical state, I really don't think I'd be able to do anything if he attacked me. Or if anybody attacked me, really. But I can't think of any good reason as to why somebody would want to attack me, other than Cartman. And even then… there's no good reason.

Then again, my view on things has been rather warped lately, hasn't it? Things that I was convinced had happened never did. So who knows how many enemies I may have accidentally made? And how far they'll go? I may have done something without having realized it at all. And as for the things that I do realize… That's another problem all together, because there, I probably knew exactly what I was doing. And there are only three people I can think of for sure.

The first is Stan, since that already happened before. Why couldn't it again? Though I'm just going to hope that nothing bad arises between our relationship again, because if that were to happen, I… I really have no idea what I would do. The second is Cartman, and I have no idea what I did to piss him off. It's not my fault that he ever fell for me, but it is my fault that I shot him in the foot. But as I'm sure I've theorized over before, I think it's just because I had a good relationship with a good human being, and he's just an asshole to everyone. So why me?

But the one I'm really, really worried about is Kenny. I mean, he's dead, and it looks like he's staying that way, but that could change so, so easily. And wouldn't he hold a great resentment towards me? This would be the second time that I've ever killed him, but the first time was for a good cause that he understood. This time was just… It was for my own personal little sickness. Or, well, it was to help me figure out something about myself, but that was just done in vain, wasn't it? Because then I confirmed that I liked killing. Then I confirmed that I didn't. Then I actually did it a few times and didn't feel anything.

So I just killed who could quite possibly be my best friend after Stan for no good reason, and not even for a _real_ reason. And he's the only chance of a friend I even have left, and that's assuming he comes back. And that's assuming when he comes back, he doesn't hate me. I mean, who knows how much pain he goes through, if any, to come back? Maybe it's none. Maybe it's a lot. Maybe it's a lot of non-visible scarring, or maybe it _is_ visible, and that's why he's always so tightly bundled up—no. He's tightly bundled up because it's cold. That's why.

And I have no chance at anybody else. I've mostly hanged around the same three people my whole life, but there were always other friends at school, too. And now, I can't go to school anymore. So I'll probably never see those guys again. I'm basically just cutting off all the world around me.

What else am I going to lose?

I stare at my reflection in the car window, my head resting against it. There's not much else I feel like doing. My eyes are red now, though, and I feel so sore all over. I think this is as comfortable as I'm about to get. Who knows how much it's going to sting once I try to move, switch positions, get up? Pretty damn bad, I'd assume.

… I'm so selfish, aren't I? All of my thoughts have been about me-me-me. I should try focusing on something else – so I look past my reflection and outside. Unfortunately, a small town tends to be boring on a normal day, and since growing up, normal days have become more and more frequent.

Which is exactly why my mind is screwing me over, isn't it? Is it to just keep things more interesting for me? It's just light afternoon weather. Of course there's snow on the ground, there always is. But the sun is still up and the sky is still blue and there are still only a few clouds in it, and mountains and trees are still rather plentiful and abundant.

And—oh, screw it. It's mid-afternoon, isn't it? I guess that means Ike will be home, and probably doing his homework. I don't know if I can even look at my younger brother anymore, though. I just can't make myself feel any special connection with him. I just can't. Then again, I don't feel it with my parents, either. Only with Stan, I guess… And even then, I really don't know.

But with Ike… He's a bit different. I mean, I threatened to kill him once before. Sure, I was obviously just talking shit, but what if I go through with it? I did with some random stranger. So… I really don't know what I'm going to do anymore. Maybe I should just leave things be, sit through shit, and take it all. I shouldn't take action anymore. That just leads to worse things, it seems.

We pull up to our house, and uncertainly, I open up the car door and attempt to step out. Unfortunately, I step right on my hurt foot. That reminds me – I haven't even had a good look at it yet. I should probably look it over.

I limp my way over to the entrance of our house, where my mom has already entered. I huddle over, and fold my arms tightly across my chest, suddenly feeling just how stinging the mountain air really is. Maybe some of it's physical, but I bet some of it is guilt, too. I just don't know what to do.

I'm a big failure and a big disappointment, and I don't think I can stand this anymore. Maybe I should just… Oh, I don't know.

After managing to make my way in, I flop over onto the couch, and refuse to move. The sudden harsh contact stings, and I can't stand it, but I don't think I can move anymore. I'm stiff all over. I don't know where the rest of my family is, but I can hear my mom on the phone in the kitchen.

"Hello, Sharon?" she says, and my ears instantly home in on her words and her side of the conversation. Sharon is Stan's mom. Maybe I'll be able to see him again. And from there, things will get better, won't they? I mean, if he's my biggest stabilizer, my absolute best friend, my… love, even, then things will get better. I'll go to counselling. I'll figure out what's wrong. I'll get my mom to get my expulsion removed. And Stan's, too. She's enough of a loudmouth, she could do it, and then things won't be bad anymore…

Except for maybe Cartman wanting to kill me for hurting him and killing Kenny and—oh, shit.

I finally hear my mom's voice again. "It's about the boys. Kyle was placed in the hospital last night. He came in, and collapsed. It was late, and I had no idea where he had been… but then I noticed that he was bleeding." Pause. Stan's mom must be replying. "No, it wasn't just something minor, Sharon. He collapsed. You could see the blood through his clothes, too… I took him gently, but I think he was unconscious by then." Another pause. "I'm getting to that, Sharon. I'm just trying to tell you of how serious this is… I called an ambulance, and he was taken in. I just brought him home now.

"They say that he lost a lot of blood, Sharon. I managed to get him out, under the recommendation that being around a familiar setting might calm him down, and make him feel better." Well, I guess that could be true. I don't feel much different than before, but maybe it's on a deeper, subconscious level. "And I really do think that we should let the boys see each other again. It'll be fine, Kyle's going to give counselling a try—No, Sharon, I don't think it's anything like that—"

I shut my eyes wearily and let my arm dangle lazily over the edge of the couch. I really, really hope Mrs. Marsh will get it. Hopefully she won't think of me as an even worse influence on her son. I mean, I know how things are going with my… mom, at least, but I don't know Stan's current relations with his parents. Things could be way worse.

"Sharon, Kyle was covered in cuts all over his limbs. None of them were as major as what first landed him in the hospital, but there were several, and a few were long and deep, and they were just—all over, Sharon. They were all over his limbs, and he admitted to having done it himself. And he said it was because he couldn't see Stan anymore. Sharon, he was so desperate. His voice was breaking, and it looked like he was about to cry."

It… it did? I didn't feel it. Is it like two separate entities now? My body just disacknowledging what it is that I really feel, and going along its own way? Is this some kind of weird, self-twisted revenge? It'd explain the blankness I've been feeling.

… No, you know what. I need to stop thinking that things happen for a reason. That's hardly the case at all. Things just happen. There doesn't have to be a reason at all – they just happen. And there's not deeper meaning behind it, so I should stop trying to find them all.

"Sharon, I think your son is holding mine together." Am I that obvious? I continue to lie there for a while, not hearing anything else in the house. The air makes this weird vibrating noise. I don't even know where my dad is, and whatever Ike's doing, he's being quiet. My mom is just in the kitchen, not saying anything. All I hear is the weird background noise of empty air, and my own breathing. It's so ragged, it's pathetic.

I'd love to be a strong individual of my own accord, but having my entire life depending on one person. That's it. And that's just so stupid.

"… Thank-you, Sharon," I finally hear. Her voice continues along afterwards, but I don't listen in. I don't have any reason to. Because that 'thank-you' could have meant only one thing. My mom's concerned for my safety, and my safety is dependent on me being able to at least interact with Stan again. And we must be able to now. We must be.

Things are getting back on track, I'm sure. In a lovely cliché, this knowledge alone would give me a bit more strength, and I'd be able to move my position at least a little. Luckily, my mind can't overcome my physical limitations. I think that's something for everyone to be thankful for. It's a nice constraint. It's not self-imposed; it's just always there, for everyone. It's a good boundary to have, so that we know when we've reached our limits, and if we've passed them, we're thoroughly punished with intense pain, and perhaps crippling health problems. At least I don't have the latter.

I move my eyes over towards the stairs, and see Ike making his way downstairs. He sees me, and lingers back a bit. I blink, and manage to give him a faint smile. I don't remember when the last time I smiled was. I feel my eyes start to water again, though. Why am I suddenly so much more visibly emotional? And why do I act it out, but never feel it?

"Kyle?" Ike asks, approaching, his beady eyes glistening. "Are you alright?"

"Remember what my answer was the last time you asked me that?"

He pauses, and backs away a little. "… No?"

"Yeah, I think that's what it was," I respond, and thrust my chin over the couch's arm. The sudden movement causes a new, sudden burst of pain, and I wince, which causes even more pain. "And even if it wasn't then, that's the case now."

"What's wrong?" Ike asks once again, concern evident on his features. Damn, how the hell does this kid care so much for me, and then go around and turn against me and tell on me so easily? I guess that's just what brothers do, but really, why? I shift my gaze from an obscure part of some wall to my brother's feet.

"Too many things," I finally respond, and sigh heavily.

Naturally, this answer won't satisfy a nine-year-old. Hell, I wouldn't have accepted that answer now myself, anyway. It's like whenever people tell you "it's a long story", and then you get them to elaborate on it, and it really wasn't a long story at all. It's just some stupid petty excuse to attempt to get out of having to explain things to people that you don't want to. And from just even taking a look at how Ike's feet shift upon being given that answer, he isn't happy with it.

"Then, Kyle," he asks once again, his voice in so much more clarity now since getting older, "what's wrong now? What's the biggest thing?"

"I'm in great pain."

"Like, in your heart?" The kid puts his finger up to his mouth, gazing thoughtfully. That phrase makes me shiver, just because it sounds so stupid.

"No. It's physical."

"Where?"

"All over."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"… No, Ike, there isn't."

Our conversation reaches an awkward point once again, and I turn my attention away from my little brother. He doesn't exist in my world right now. I'm not acknowledging him. I don't know what it is that I should. I guess I should just wait for Stan, but really, once he gets here, then what? Then what happens? Most likely nothing once again. Nothing new will happen, nothing will be solved, no progressions will be made, and things will continue to remain hopeless and screwed for me. And maybe him, too. I don't know how well he's taking it.

Probably not nearly as badly as I am. After all, Stan said it himself. I'm the crazy one, and he's perfectly sane. I don't deny this for a second. It's… Stan. He's right. He was consistently right, time after time again, despite being in a bit more of an emotionally vulnerable state. He remained correct that entire goddamn night, and I was in the wrong the whole time.

So wait, if I'm in the wrong, and I admit that Stan was right, does that make me right? But if I'm wrong, I couldn't be right, so I would still be wrong. But that would make Stan wrong, but that's not possible, because he's always right… And… Aw, aw hell.

I decide to give my mind a break and I try to listen to my mom's conversation again, but my ears end up picking another sound instead. "Um, Kyle?" Ike asks, and I don't look at him, but I acknowledge him. My ears twitch a little at the sound of his voice. "Did you… Did you jump out of your window?"

I hesitate to answer. So he really did see me. "Yeah."

"Why?"

I shift my left foot's position a little and grit my teeth in pain. I really, really need to get a look at it. "Because I was… scared," I finally respond, recalling my emotions all-too-well from that night, only around two days ago, if my memory is serving me correctly.

"Of what?" Ike persists. What the hell is he getting at, here? If he wants to help—That's what it is, isn't it? That's all he wants. To help. Then why the hell would he want to help me? Because he cares about me? Honestly, what the hell did I do to deserve people caring about me? Especially people I don't really want to care about me. I should probably realize this right now, but I'm too stubborn to give it any more thought than the only one I honestly want to be around is Stan.

But once again, nothing will become accomplished from that, and there's a damn good chance that nothing will get accomplished from going to counselling, either. And even if it does "fix me up", then what? Life will continue to go, pointlessly and unenjoyable as ever. Man. Maybe I'm just suicidal. But I can't even do that correctly, so I guess that there's no point in even trying _that_ again.

"Kyle?"

Ike snaps me out of my mental rambling, and I finally decide that I'm sick of his prying. "Of something," I spit out, rather forcibly, praying that he'll get the message here. My eyes widen a bit further in blankness as I realize that I actually _did_ spit out, but it wasn't saliva.

Great, so now I'm coughing up blood. I don't think Ike noticed though, and it's only a small amount, just kinda sitting there on the coffee table next to this couch. It didn't hit anything on the table, just the actual table itself, and it's only a few red droplets. Still, maybe this is a further sign that means that I should refrain from talking.

"What was that something?" Ike prods again, and I finally shift my head's position, taking way more caution this time, to glare at him. Through gritted teeth, I get an answer through.

"None. Of. Your. Business," is what I say, emphasizing each word for no particular reason. Just because I can, I guess. That's the excuse I've been falling back on an awful lot lately.

Something about me – not surprisingly – makes Ike back off. I wonder if he's recalling when I threatened to kill him right at this moment, because I sure am. I don't feel any real desire to do that, though. I just kinda want him to fuck off and leave me alone. I need to figure some way of getting up to my room so I can get a closer look at my foot, because it is throbbing like hell. But it must have been cleaned up already, right? What kind of shitty hospital wouldn't have noticed that? Maybe that's why it's throbbing, because it's already been treated, and treatment, while best for you, still causes some pain afterwards—

"Um… Can I ask you one more thing?" Ike asks, scuttling a bit further back. "I just want to know something else, Kyle. I don't want to…" My little brother sniffs, and I honestly don't know how to feel. He seems to genuinely concerned. Maybe this'll put a stop to our petty sibling rivalry? How the fuck did that get started, anyway?

And now I remember. Back when Cartman was… abusing, I guess, is the word, me, my family wasn't just sitting around then, as I imagined them being. Of course not. Of course there was genuine concern, but my parents weren't too sure what to make of it. They told me to stop going near Cartman, but Cartman was the one who always came to me. Forbidding anything never, ever worked. Cartman would always just find some way around it.

And Cartman stopped when Kenny stepped in, but now I remember _why_ Kenny stepped in when he did. There was a specific moment. And that was when Cartman accidentally hurt Ike.

Of course, Ike wasn't awake for it. It was in Ike's sleep, to make things worse. And it wasn't like it was a bad injury. Pretty minor compared to the things I went through, and no blood, or anything. Just a swing and a miss at me that ended up hitting Ike in one of our late-night scuffles. And that's the point in which Kenny stepped in, and things calmed down, and I guess I felt a bit of resentment towards Ike, because it was my fault that he got hurt.

… That doesn't make any bit of sense in the slightest. Oh. Well. Time to go back to the real world, now.

"What about that knife?" Ike asks. "What happened to it?"

… Right! The knife! I, I really should go back and see if I can find it again—that is, if I could actually move. It's gonna hurt like a bitch to get it back, but I'll do that later today, and hopefully it'll still be there. I need it mostly for sentimental values, I guess, although what those would be, I'm really not sure of.

I guess I take too long in thinking these things up, because Ike just gives up. He approaches me one more time, and wraps his arms around me. I stare ahead blankly, and don't return the hug, unsure of how I should be feeling. And then Ike leaves, mumbling something about homework. And my limbs sting in even more pain, especially where Ike touched me.

Bastard. That good intention just hurt me even more. Fucking bastard.

Well, now I have the chance to listen to my mom again. I listen for her voice, but don't hear it. After a long pause, she finally says, "Gerald, I'm not sure if that's what we should do…" Wait, she's talking to my dad now?

… My dad. I've barely even spoken to him since this whole thing started up. Why is that? Why has he been so god damn passive here? Why is it that my mom is always the one taking action when I screw up? Why is it that the only person in my family I can even rely on, in the slightest, without going overboard and actually having genuine feelings, is a little Canadian?

Christ. I don't even know what to bitch about anymore, I—

And then my father enters the room, and I realize that I'm still here; taking over the entire couch space, spread out and in pain because of it, but it would hurt more to shift my position, so I don't want to do that. But I'm going to have to get up to my room somehow, and—

"Hey, Kyle," my dad leans down to be on eye-level with me. "How are you doing?"

I feel that the appropriate response to that is to close my eyes and massage my temples from the sheer stupid of that question. _Surely_ he knows that I just got out of the hospital, right?

"Oh. Heh. Yeah," he says, and I open my eyes again, and see that my initial reaction to his question was appropriate and fitting. "That's right, isn't it?" I continue to lie on my side blankly, and I wonder where the hell this is going. "I'm sorry I haven't been around too much, Kyle. I never saw this coming, and I've had a lot of work lately… Really, can you tell me how you're feeling, though?"

"… Okay, I guess," I answer meekly, not really sure of myself. "I dunno."

"Well, that's better than 'awful,'" Dad says. He looks around the living room for something that may lead this conversation in a less-awkward direction. "You know I still love you, and care about you, right?"

"Yeah."

"You're a good boy, Kyle," he says, "and as long as you work on your problems and don't give up, you'll remain to be so." Ha. Yeah right. Look, it's lovely that people care about me for some reason, but that doesn't make me a good person. Then again, he doesn't know what I've really done… And I don't intend to let him find out. Or anyone, really. There are some things I really shouldn't be telling Stan, either.

Christ, am I that estranged from my family? That when they're around me, trying to help me and devoting their attentions to me, all I can really, really think about is Stan? What Stan's going through, what Stan is doing right now, what would Stan do, what would Stan say—fuck. This needs to stop. Honestly, it does. I need to try to give more of a damn about my own flesh and blood.

But I just can't.

Noticing that it's my turn to say something, and that I haven't yet, I say the first, generic thing that comes to mind. "Thanks, Dad." Pause. "… I love you, too."

He smiles at that, and I feel my gut twisting around. I don't know why I'm feeling so uncomfortable about all of this. "But hey," my dad suddenly interrupts, "you're taking up the whole couch."

"Sorry," I give a weak smile. "It hurts too much to move right now."

"Ah," he says, grinning back. "Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"Well, I'd love to be in my room right now… I'm sure my bed's a bit more comfortable than just being here. It's also less in the way." There I go. A good, plausible excuse so I can take a look at my damn foot already. It's been throbbing like mad.

"And you can't make it up the stairs, right?"

"Probably not."

"Shall I carry you?"

"Wh—wha—" I'm not even given a chance to finish the simple four-letter word before I'm suddenly hoisted up. I guess it helps quite a bit that I haven't been eating very well recently, because that would make me a bit lighter. I wonder how hard it would be to carry me up if I were Cartman – probably wouldn't be possible at all. But it sure does sting like a bitch, being held the way I am, right on some of my cuts.

Well, it is my own fault that I did this to myself, after all, so I guess that I shouldn't bitch _too_ much. But still, I think I have good enough reason for it. Physical pain is acceptable to be whiny over, because nobody ever really likes that. Or maybe I do just a bit, otherwise why would I have done this to myself—

NO. I've had excuses all across the board, and they all fit. Besides. It fucking hurts and I'd rather live in comfort if I have to live at all.

My dad makes it to the top of the stairs before setting me down. "Think you can manage the rest of the way yourself? You're going to have to start walking sometime," he says.

I attempt to stand up, and succeed, but my legs are shaky and feel like they're going to fall out from underneath me at any given second. "Y—yeah… Well, maybe I could use a bit of support…"

"Of course, Kyle." And so, I'm assisted in walking down the hallway to my room, but I make it. I make it and I'm so damn happy I can finally have a bit of time to myself.

Satisfying my dad, who's standing in the doorway, I get myself up on top of my bed, fulfilling my excuse. With that, the door closes, and I'm left alone again. It's now that I realize just how deafeningly silent it is in here. It's kinda creepy.

I take this opportunity to look around my room a bit. Ahah, that's that emotions essay I was supposed to be working on for English. Guess I won't have to do that anymore, right? Anger. Man, that used to fit so well, but I don't know anymore. Actually, it probably does, and it just hasn't totally come out yet.

My eyes then rest on that sketchbook, and I nearly choke on my own spit upon remembering it. I wanted to kill Stan so badly then, and—aghh…

I cough up the saliva in my mouth, and a few more blood droplets come out with it. I cringe at this, wondering just how badly I got myself hurt, and how the hell my mom was able to get me released from the hospital and back at home if I'm in this much pain and doing _that_. But I didn't really want to be in the hospital in the first place, so…

It's honestly too quiet in here. And my room is messier than I ever remember it being. And those small blood droplets now on the carpeting of my room remind me that I finally have the chance to take a look at my foot.

Carefully, so carefully I slide my left shoe off after untying it. I note that there's a red stain inside of it, and I toss it away a bit carelessly. Looking at my foot now, it still has the sock on it, and that's been stained red, as well, and it's kinda crusty-looking. I can't tell exactly where the highest concentration of blood was from just looking at it, because it's been spread out pretty evenly across the now-ruined synthetic material.

It's still way too damn quiet in here.

Gingerly, I grasp the sock's end and slowly tug it off, and my mouth gapes wide open at what I see.


	22. Weak and Pathetic

_Alright, guys, I'm sorry. I honestly had no idea what I was doing for the previous two chapters. I have a bit more of an idea now, but it isn't as much as I'd like it to be. Still, I'm making my way along, and at least I'm getting closer to getting this fic done. This'll totally be a new record for me._

_Also, new South Park starts in less than a month's time. How awesome is that? Alright, get on with this chapter, and I'll be back again next week. I've been getting a lot of time off school lately so there isn't really any good excuse for me **not** to be writing and getting this done. Also, 10 000 hits now? Wow, guys, wow.  
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Staring right past my foot – past the scab that's already formed right in between my big toe and the one next to it, past the crusted over, slightly glistening, hardened red liquid, covering the general area, being able to see it on the top of my foot as well as feel it on the bottom. Past the paths that the blood made as it flowed down, no longer doing so, as it's stained itself in place and the flow has stopped by now. Past the sticky, nasty feeling, past the hole I can see quite clearly in between the two aforementioned toes. Past the small, yet fairly deep, slit, barely visible through the blood that's collected itself all around it. Past the burning agony made easily visible by the blood trails, past the feeling of the entire underside of my foot being covered in the faded red substance, past the stinging pain and realization of no wonder it's so hard for me to walk on it, the wonder of why it hasn't been bandaged up because there's a slit right in my foot and an unrealistic amount of blood has come out of it and stained my entire foot, my sock, leaked through out to my shoe, and is even bleeding a little bit as I just sit there and stare. Staring right past my foot, taking in all of the observations out of the corner of my eye and registering them just like that, I see something I'm not too sure to make of, though my reaction is certainly appropriate enough. 

"What the hell? What the fuck are you doing in here; _how_ the fuck did you _get_ in here?" I demand, my voice a bit more calm than I'd like it to be, but hey, there are other people in this house. Restraint's gotta be used. "Cartman! This—How the hell did you get in here!"

Cartman meets my gaze, his eyes cold and steely. He's on the opposite side of my foot; I can only just wonder what he's seeing on the bottom. It's one thing to _feel_ how bloody it is, it's another to actually _see_ it and confirm it with your own eyes. Feelings aren't always accurate, especially in situations like these. Eye sight tends to work a bit better. It's more reliable, and it's harder to make up.

I stare back at the fat boy, glaring him down no less than the look he's already giving me. "I asked a fucking question—several, actually. Answer me!"

Cartman, however, just keeps his gaze fixated on my eyes, before allowing himself to break eye contact and look around a bit more. He glances down to my foot, and then at his own, and an odd smile breaks out on his face. "Heh. Looks like you can't get away too easily now, can you, Kyle?" he asks me, still just standing there. "In fact, I'd say it's worse than mine. Would you like to compare?"

"No, I would not!" I seethe, frustrated at myself for being unable to do anything other than talk to him. But I'm still in too much pain all over to do much else, and it's too hard for me to move right now. It's already enough of a wonder that I managed to get into my bed, but I don't think I'll be moving out of it any time soon. "And how the fuck did you get in here?"

"How did I _not_ get in here?" Cartman asks, raising a brow. "Come on, Kyle. I've done this before. You should know better than to question me by now."

This is fucking ludicrous. "Well, normally, people don't break into other people's houses! Maybe I'm just trying to live in the normal world a bit here!" I retaliate, and then bite my tongue before I can say anything else. He's probably going to turn that into some kind of smart ass remark, but then again, maybe he doesn't know as much as I think he does. It's not like I'm lying, though. I _am_ trying to live in the normal world, I'm just not doing too good of a job at succeeding.

"Relax, Kyle," Cartman sighs, throwing his head back in an exasperated manner. "It's not like I'm here without a reason."

"Well, what is your reason? Why _are_ you here?"

He suddenly turns his objectives to serious business. "Revenge," he states simply, the one world rolling off of his tongue and then fading away from the air just as his mouth shuts.

"For what? I haven't done anything to you!" I cry back out in response. If this is about Kenny… Well, I didn't do anything to _Cartman_.

Cartman snorts at that. "Right. And what do you call this?" he asks me, pointing at his foot and then taking a few steps forward, closer to my bed, and me. I notice that he's putting full pressure on both of his feet now, and he only has a small limp, wincing in pain just barely as he steps on his hurt foot.

My mind draws a blank. "Well, yeah. But don't you think I've suffered worse already?" I demand, nodding to my own hurt foot. I'd point at it but I don't think I can.

"What? No, I agree, you have," he replies, stopping at the foot of my bed and examining my bare foot with his eyes. "There's blood all over it, Kyle. It's way worse than what you did to me, I'm sure."

"So then there's no need to get back at me! Right?" I plead. Normally I wouldn't, and I'd have gotten him the hell out of my house right away, but I'm at such a severe physical disadvantage here it's laughable. I can't even fight a fatass. Great.

Cartman just shakes his head in response. "No, you see, _I_ didn't get to do that to you, Kyle. That's the problem here. _I_ need to do that to you."

"Why? What the fuck is that going to solve?"

I receive no answer, and instead, he just walks around the foot of my bed and up to my side, glaring down at me. "Answer me, damnit!" I cry out again, desperately, unsure of what he's going to do next. But he's gotta have some good reason for it. He'd want to tell me of it and rub it in my face, wouldn't he? After all, that's typical Cartman. So why the hell isn't he saying anything?

I can feel the gun still right by me, I know it, but I can't reach it or use it because that will cause too much pain. I turn my gaze absent-mindedly from Cartman's fat face and back to my foot. Cartman follows my stare and suddenly yanks up my pant leg. We're both exposed to all of the cuts and blood stains, new and old, that are only on that small section of visible leg. A grin slides up onto Cartman's face, replacing his previously serious expression as he seems to get more excited again. "Oh, so it's worse, huh? Where else is it?" he asks, raising a brow cockily.

I don't respond, not wanting to provoke him any further. Responding might buy me some time, but what good is time going to be in this situation? Unless one of my family members suddenly and rather conveniently opens the door and bursts into the scene – which isn't going to happen, since naturally, they're all going to think I need my rest – then there isn't really much to spare me from whatever it is Cartman plans to do. And I don't want to respond to him, I don't want more biting remarks thrown my way by a chubby sociopath who has no clue what the fuck he's even doing.

After giving me sufficient time to answer, Cartman shrugs and accepts my silence. He can see it, I know – the look I'm giving him says all that I need to be said, and he accepts it and scoffs right in its face. He thinks it's funny that I'm so pissed about this, I bet. So he rolls up the pant leg even further, and I wince as the fabric brushes past my skin and, more importantly, my self-inflected injuries. He rolls it up as far as it can go, and then whistles, seeing my handiwork all over my leg.

"Wow, so you did all of this to yourself, Kyle?" he asks, blowing some air out of his mouth. "What was this? Something else make you want to kill yourself? Was it _me_?" he inquires, leaning in to my face and grinning broadly. "You should know this: Getting yourself expelled from school won't let you escape me, and neither will death. You're screwed, Kyle."

"I didn't get myself expelled just to try to escape from you!" I shout out at him, and then follow it up with a, "You! Fucking! Fatass!" I shake with rage at this remark. "You're not a fucking threat at all! You're just full of crap, Cartman! You're acting so big and tough but you're nothing and you know it!" I scoff, looking away from him and outside my window instead. It's dark out. "Drop the act and **get the hell out of my house**!"

The second the last syllable leaves my lips, I feel another stinging sensation down in my leg. I whip my head back around, the bits of curls peaking out from under my hat flying through the air from the wind I created, and stare down at the new blood trail rolling down and off of my leg and onto my bed sheets. I gawk, my mouth hanging only slightly open, and turn my head slowly up to look at Cartman. There's a knife in his hand.

And it looks familiar—fuck! It's _mine_!

"Still think that, you fucking Jew?" He narrows in on me, so far that our noses are brushing up against one another's. His eyes have narrowed while mine have opened even more from two shocks: The shock from the pain and then the shock that he actually did that. Sure, he's hurt me before, using his own body as the means of attack, or he's threatened me with a weapon before, but he's never actually _used_ one – and now I can see how serious he is.

And how serious this situation is, because if I try to move, I don't know what will happen now. I can only be happy that this new cut on my leg is just a light one, and it's not all that deep at all. The blood flow is minor… But he could just be purposely doing that to keep me scared: to keep this long, slow, and painful. Like when he wouldn't respond to me at certain points. It's probably all just part of this act.

Since when are acts taken _this_ seriously? Really, since when? Because having his eyes right in my face right now, that's all they read. That he's serious about getting back at me somehow for _something_ that I did that makes _no_ sense whatsoever. And I'm not so sure about pointing this out to him now.

I guess one thing to take into account, though, would be to stop thinking that I'm so god damn special. I'm not the only crazy one here; Cartman's been a nut for quite a while now. I just had no idea that he'd escalated into more homicidal tendencies – and unlike me, he's not a pussy. He doesn't have that many morals to hold him back. He'll do it. And I would do it to him only, if only I could fight him back.

Cartman finally pulls away, but there's no cocky grin on his face anymore. His jaw line is sturdy and his facial expressions give nothing away. The knife remains raised in his hand, as he reaches over with his other one to my other pant leg, and starts rolling it up. Undoubtedly, he wants to see what else there is. Logically, not only one leg can be beaten up so badly – my other leg must be, too. And I guess he wants to see that for himself, to rub it in and find out my further weaknesses. To continue using them against me, and to make me suffer as much as possible. For some reason that he thinks is a damn good one that _nobody else knows_.

I'm sure this is sounding awfully familiar to me right now.

I take this opportunity to look down at my other leg as Cartman roles the pant leg up, and compare it with my left one. They both look really similar; there're just spontaneous cuts all over them. Some deep, some shallow. Some nothing more than a thin line, some almost an inch thick. Man, what the _fuck_ was I think while doing all of that? That's ridiculous – nobody would do that to themselves. Not even for an "excuse" – that was just fucking stupid. Fuck…

I look back up at Cartman and see him unsure of what to do now. I know that he has some kind of plan in mind, but I'm not too sure if he even knows what he should be doing at this moment. He catches my stare and returns it, his eyes narrowing once again upon contact with mine. "Well? What?" he snaps, brandishing the knife and shifting his position to a slightly more aggressive one. "What do you want?"

"For you to stop this!" I cry out, suddenly jerking my legs up and wrapping my arms around them. As I do, my pant legs fall back over my legs, and I feel sudden rushes of great, stinging pain all over my limbs now from moving all of them at once so damn quickly and without warning. "Fuck!" I cry out once again, tears brimming at the edges of my eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

I'm a bit too distracted by the pain right now to notice what's going on, so it comes as a bit of a surprise to me when my shirt sleeves are suddenly both forcefully rolled up to my shoulders. There I see the extent of that knife as well, and I shiver a bit, tears slowly starting to roll down my cheeks from the further pain. "Stop it, stop this, Cartman!"

Wordlessly, he reaches forward with his right hand. He observes the thin water trail making its way down my face, and then suddenly disrupts it with a slash across my cheek. The pain registers right away and it adds onto the rest of it, and I sit there stupidly and gawk and the two liquids start flowing together. I turn my neck up to look at him, and suddenly, that old cut on my neck starts to sting.

It's so hard to even describe how I'm feeling right now. Blank isn't even the right kind of emotion – I guess "incredulous" fits the bill. I just can't believe that this is happening. Not even forty-eight hours ago, I was just snuggling happily with Stan, and things really started to look up. And now here I am, sitting in my room, cut up all over and having one of the three people I know best in my life standing before me and hurting me more than he ever has before. Because come on, face it, physical pain hurts a _lot_ more than emotional pain. It's a natural instinct for it to hurt. Our bodies keep us alive, not our emotions.

But he doesn't even do any more than that. He's just leaving this all up to my imagination, isn't he? Make me think that he's going to do something worse? I'd love to not give him the satisfaction of that, but it's hard to ignore an issue staring you right in the face. And as stupid as Cartman is, I think he's fully aware of that, too. So he's using it to his advantage and I can't do anything in retaliation.

Except… Maybe I could make another kill. This is in self-defence now. He was torturing me, so don't I reserve that right? Right?

But I can't force myself to move my arms again. The only way I'm even going to get to that gun is through another jerk reaction, because I seem to be subconsciously too scared to move, otherwise. So he's just going to have to push me even further over the edge, which is going to involve more pain and blood loss on my part. And I don't want that anymore… Maybe he'll just go away on his own…?

No. Of course he won't. Don't be so fucking stupid and naïve, Kyle. You were just like that and all it brought you was a temporary high for you to come crashing down upon.

"Please, just stop this!" I cry out once again, seeing talking as the only way of possibly getting out of this. As my mouth moves the paths of blood coming down my cheek adjust their course, and my new cheek cut stings even more now, too.

And upon crying out I'm suddenly dealt a punch right to my face by Cartman's left hand. The force of it, as well as its suddenness, jerks my head back and, along with it, my entire body, and I flop limply backwards, my head smashing down on my pillow. I stare up at Cartman with wide, fearful eyes, and I'm honestly scared for my life now and what's going to happen. However, at the very least bit of comfort I can get, it's not like he's totally emotionless himself. I see tears brimming on the edges of his own eyes as he draws his fist back and punches it to my face once again. My lip splits and blood starts to become evident from there, too.

And I can't fight back! He's attacking me over and over again with his own hand and normally, I'd be able to match him, but I just can't! I can't do anything about this; I'm _literally _his punching bag now! Fucking _literally_! It's such a degrading feeling and oh, god, all I can do is sit here and _take it_! Getting beaten up and I can't do a damn thing about it and I just—fuck!

Finally, he pulls back and stops. I get the chance to take a good look at his face now: his mouth is hanging open only slightly, and he's staring right at me, and it's hard to tell that he was crying at all, but he sure as hell looks a tad shocked right now. And even more uncertain of himself. And his fist is covered in blood. Mine. Well, that's just great.

It's probably not the best thing to do right now, but I can't bear just sitting here, doing absolutely nothing. And all I really can do now is talk – but even that hurts now – to even hope to get anything accomplished. It's so worthless because words hardly even really mean anything…

"Cartman, just—just answer me. Why are you doing this…?"

He just seems to be such an emotional wreck right now, and can barely properly form comprehendible words. His mouth is moving but only small little squeaking sounds are coming out. Did I just touch a nerve with him?

I stare up at him, and suddenly start to feel myself growing tired. I feel even more dizzy and uncoordinated than I have before. I look around a bit, but then end up simply slumping over even more. My arms limply fall over the sides of my bed as my head sinks further back into my pillow, and Cartman is further elevated above me. I stare up at him, and I find my vision growing blurrier and blurrier. It's hard to make out the details on his face, his expression… So of course, it's even harder to attempt to read his mind than before.

I recall the last times that I went blind, and it first started when Cartman told me that he had a crush on me. I'd attribute my current vision problems to that weird blindness thing, but I'm losing even more blood now, and I'm just feeling pain all over, so it really isn't any surprise that I'm slipping away a bit. But is this why Cartman's suddenly stopped? Because he's suddenly remembered that bit, part of what got this started to begin with? The fact that he loved me?

"I… I helped you…" he stutters out, "and _that's_ what you gave me in return? _That?_"

His words faintly reach my ears, and then all other sound closes off as the rest of my vision blanks out, eyelids tightly pressing up against eyes. My mind, too, starts to fade out, but I can still consistently feel the pain…

* * *

I feel chills all over my body, and upon remembering what happened before I lost consciousness, more chills come. The first were from the cold, and I'd love to take a look around and see where I am, but my neck feels immobilized and my eyelids heavy. I can feel the wind, though, and it's biting through my clothes and into my skin. At least there's some sort of pathetic barrier to shield it from my cuts, though, but it isn't really much. Still, it's better than nothing, I guess. 

But wait… What was it that happened, again? Cartman randomly showed up, and I got hurt, and… I blanked out, obviously, but… Then what? Where is he now? Oh, god, and how cold is it out here? Did he just leave me out here for dead? That's pretty torturous in itself, letting me die a slow, cold death, all on my own.

Nah. He probably doesn't even think that that's all that bad. He'd want something way, way worse for me, anyway, I know it. Because whatever his reason is, he thinks it's a good enough one that it isn't enough to see me hurt; _he_ has to do it _himself_. I'm just trying to figure out what it was that I did that was so bad, though. What it is that I did that can compare to this. But I can't. I really can't come up with anything that would be _that_ bad. I guess different things are open to different interpretations, but…

I'm cold. I've had enough suffering. I'm not even worth inflicting this upon. And what was it that Cartman said before? "_I helped you_?" He helped me? What? Since when? What the hell does he mean by "help"? Hell, does he even know what that word _means_? Because I'm even less sure of what he's thinking now, because this, in no way, is helpful to anyone, at all, ever.

So he said it was all for revenge. For what, just shooting him in the foot? And _this_ is what I get in return? Or is this revenge for going against his "help"? Fuck, I wish I actually had a clue.

Finally, I manage to pry my eyes open, only to find that all I see is white. I sigh and curse at myself, frustrated with this random, impeding blindness. It's not helping any matters. All I know right now is that it's cold and I'm cold and there's wind blowing around me. It's a light wind, but it's a cold wind, and a cutting wind. I don't even know if Cartman's here. Well… Might as well see, then, I guess. Or rather, not see. Check. Yeah, check's the right word.

"Cartman?" I call out nervously, really unsure of what to expect now. At the very least, I'm sure the blood has stopped flowing from my newly acquired cuts, though my neck one still throbs a bit. "Cartman? Are you there? Where are you?" I try again after not receiving an answer within the first minute.

And in response, my side gets dealt a kick, nearly toppling me over from my position. I make a small grunting noise in response, but try not to pay it much heed. Hopefully he just won't kill me, I'll put up with this shit for a little while, and then he'll be happy, and I can run off back home and get charges pressed against him.

And then, everybody will be happy, and all will be well and right with the world. And then I can get everything else fixed and live happily ever after. Oh yeah, that'll be sweet.

And… just not going to happen.

I stretch my arms out, and find that they don't hurt nearly as much as they did before. So I try to sit up, but I just get kicked back down again – this time by having a foot stomping down on my back – and whiteness floods into my vision. I shiver a little, and try to speak out again. "What did you mean, 'I helped you'?" I ask, innocently enough, and a foot comes crashing down on my back once again.

I'm so pissed off right now. I'd love to be able to overpower the piece of crap and get him to stop this shit and start fucking answering my questions or leave me the hell alone, but I'm probably still too weak right now to do such a thing. I'm so pissed off at both Cartman and myself, because Cartman's the one doing this crap and it's my own fault I ended up getting so badly hurt in the first place. God damn the both of us.

I try to subtly raise my head, little by little, but suddenly a knife is thrust down, right in front of my face. It skims my nose just a little bit, creating yet another small little cut. Getting really sick and tired of having my skin sliced open in place after place, time after time, I simply give a frustrated sigh and stop moving all together. After all, that's what he wants, it seems.

And then I feel the pressure elevate from my back, and I sink further down and let my body relax a little. Hell, at least the cold feels… kinda nice against all of these cuts. Kinda. The wind doesn't really do any good, though, and I'd still like to know where the hell I am, other than outside.

But finally, after a few minutes of waiting, Cartman speaks up once again. "Kyle, I'm not going to kill you," he mutters, and I inwardly roll my eyes at how horrible of a liar he is. I try to resist the urge to bite back with some smartass remark, and fail.

"Yeah, right, Cartman. And you're a fucking genius. What the hell makes this time so different from a few years ago, huh? You're more violent and more serious this time, and I can't do a damn thing about it. Dumbass, if you just leave me here like this for a little longer, I'm going to die."

"Dumbass," Cartman snaps back, kicking my side again with a good deal of force, "it's just my backyard. You aren't going to die here. You're just going to suffer."

I raise my eyebrow and finally manage to hoist myself up from my face-first position in the snow. I can finally get a decent look at him, as well as my surroundings. I see his house looming over us, but a fence is still separating us from it – we're _behind_ his backyard. "And what the hell, dude, your mom is letting this go on?"

"My mom doesn't know crap!" he spits back, kicking me in the gut and causing me to stumble and fall backwards in the snow, right on my ass. I seriously wish, so badly, that I could fight back, but I just can't because I'm still too goddamn hurt all over. At the least, I can move a lot more freely now, but… He has an actual weapon on his side, which is a further disadvantage for me. And even if he promises not to kill me, who's to say it won't happen, anyway? "Look, come with me," Cartman speaks up again, snapping me from my thoughts. His hand is extended out to me to help me up. I stare up at him for a second before turning my head away and spitting out my response.

"No!"

Cartman simply shrugs and turns away from me. "Fine, whatever, then I'll knock you unconscious again and do with you as I will until you come around again."

Before he has the chance to do any other actions, I shout out, rather audibly, "Yeah, you'd like that because you're still gay for me, aren't you? This isn't just about making me suffer, or making things 'right' on your end, is it? It's so you can get your sick, sick pleasure too, huh? Fuck you so bad, Cartman!"

His body immediately stiffens and he turns around to stare at me. I stand my ground, and all-too-suddenly, find myself slumping over from a sudden, new, deep cut in my shoulder. The ground rushes up to meet me and my last conscious thoughts this time are of how old this constant hurting and abusing me is getting.


	23. Stupid and Useless

_I don't remember when exactly I took it down, but you may notice that "slash" is no longer in this fic's summary. I'm not removing it entirely, since it did take place in previous chapters, and it'd just be silly to flat-out ignore it now. However, I did take it out because I'm trying to keep it as minimal as possible now. Not a whole lot of slash really even happened to begin with, so I think it's fair. Frankly, I've found that slash – or romance in general – is just really hard for me to write, and even if you happen to think that I'm good at it, it's just not fun for me to write, either. So I'll stick to my angst and gore, thanks._

_But! I still have a story going on here, no matter how out of character it is, and I do intend to finish it. So here's a step in that direction. Enjoy._

* * *

Before even my eyes can open, I hear a sharp crack. A lighter one soon follows, and suddenly, in addition to my already-throbbing headache, I'm feeling a sharper pain in my head. It rests there for a bit, agony residing in my skull, pulsating like my heartbeat (only not as quickly, as now that has sped up due to panic). Then it all spreads out to my various other injuries, of which there are several. Aside from the occasional random, blunt strike, they're all slashes and cuts. The pain all flows out, downwards and through my limbs, and I feel really stiff now, too. I attempt to move, and not only do I find that it only produces a dull, more mild pain to do that, but that it's also impossible for me to do a lot of it.

I try to open my eyes, but I'm kicked right in the gut instead. Through natural reflexes, I wince and double over, bending my head down as I try to curl up into a ball in a stupid attempt to protect my stomach. Upon doing this action, a hand grabs the top of my head and forces it straight down into the ground, face-first. My nose is stuffed into old, smelly carpet, and gets pressed up against it. The hand holding me in this position doesn't relent, and I can't move.

Slowly, the pain across my body starts to reside, and I regain actual feeling in my body. And that's how I can tell the reason as to why I can't move. I can feel rope tied about my wrists and ankles, rather tightly, and digging right into my skin. Whenever it gets off, it's gonna leave marks, that's for sure. And my arms are stretched out so as to keep my hands behind my back. My legs are bound together in various other spots, other than the ankles. It's impossible to separate them and the rope just digs right into my skin.

Just now, the pressure against my head relieves, and suddenly, I'm pushed right back up and backwards. My torso shoots up and my head collides with what I can only assume to be a wall, creating another crack. I struggle to open my eyes and find that I can't.

This isn't blindness, I know this for sure. My eyelids are definitely closed. I'd be able to see if I could open them, but I can't, and I have no idea why. You can't bind eyelids shut, can you? I mean… that's just a bit too messed up. Even for Cartman.

What the hell is he doing with me?

He said this was revenge. I'd have thought that what had happened earlier would have been suitable enough. Wasn't it? Why does he have to keep doing this to me? I did hurt him _once_. And that was just a quick, sudden movement, and there was no agonizing psychological torture or anything behind it. I can hear the sound of his breathing over my own weakened breaths, but that's it. I don't think he's about to start talking to me and opening up right about now, anyway.

He promised not to kill me, didn't he? He just said that I was going to suffer. Well, I'm suffering now. But surely Cartman must know that if he lets me go, I'm gonna run and tell. Hell, I wouldn't even have to tell anything – the scarring and bruises and all this good shit on me is more than enough proof that he's been abusing me. True, I did hurt myself quite a bit, but then how the hell do you explain the rope around my wrists?

Cartman wouldn't overlook that. So is he just planning to not let me go? Is he going to just keep me here and fuck around with me until I die of natural causes? Knowing this, it'll probably end up being blood loss.

And I still have no clue where the fucking hell I am. I can't open my goddamn eyes and there are no sounds to indicate where I would be. Maybe that means that it's sometime late at night, when most other people are asleep? Man, when the hell was the last time that I got to be among them; sleeping when I'm supposed to be?

I stick out my tongue in thought, a bit surprised at the fact that I'm not gagged or anything. I taste a small bit of blood at the tip of my tongue, so I rove it around that area of my face as best as I can. I guess my cheek wound opened up again. Come to think of it, I can feel the blood making its way down my face now. I can also feel just a small, small bit of trickling from that cut on my neck, but that's it.

All right, so without my sight at the moment, I'm starting to feel things a bit better. But I can't feel any kind of cloth over my eyes, or tied around my head, or anything. Amazingly enough, my hat is still on, but that's the only synthetic material on my head. So I'm not blindfolded, but I still can't open my eyes. I try to and it just… It hurts, and it feels like it's pulling at my skin.

I'd ask him where the hell are we, what are you doing to me right now, why can't I open my eyes, but I think I'm done with asking questions. He's not going to answer me, and even if he does, it's not going to be a very good, coherent answer at all. So there's simply no point in doing it. Hell, it might piss him off even more if I try to talk.

"Okay, Kyle, just relax. Don't make any sudden movements, alright?"

Speaking of talking… Cartman? His voice sounds so concerned. What the fuck is going on? Seriously, this isn't funny! This is beyond some cruel practical joke, this is my fucking _life_ we're toying with here! My own goddamned feelings, and this can't be doing a good number on my sanity at all. And his tone wasn't threatening at all. It was just… It was just, like, neutral, a little blank, but with a slight tone of concern tacked onto the end. Just what the hell is he doing? Just messing with me for his own sick pleasure now? This has jackshit to do with—

"Fuck!" I yelp out, and immediately after doing so, I turn to merely just hissing in pain through clenched teeth. I feel the knife plunge in a little deeper than it was before, probably because I made a fairly vocal cry of pain. Like an idiot, I struggle, and that just causes more of my skin to be pierced and hurt me even more.

I don't know what the hell he's thinking. He's telling me to relax, and then he starts dragging a knife – probably _the_ knife, actually – across my skin? More specifically, right around my stomach? What the _hell_ is he thinking? 'Fresh meat?' Honestly, just because I've managed to keep that part of my body free from cuts? This… Oh, god.

It hurts so much. And yet I continue to feebly struggle. At least my movements are a bit weaker now, since I just don't feel as much strength to get away from this as I probably should. But you know, really… I can't believe it.

And then I freeze at the sound of another voice. I can't tell if Cartman freezes or not, too, because I _still can't fucking see_.

"Sweetie, are you all right in there?" calls out the sickly sweet, ignorant voice of Cartman's mother.

"I'm fine, Mom!" Cartman barks back, pulling the knife away from me. "Everything's okay!"

"All right, poopsikins. Don't you think you should be going to bed now, though?"

A very audible sigh comes from lardtits. "I'm not tired, Mom! I'll go to bed when I'm ready!"

"Okay, Eric. Good night!" And thus ends the mild intermission. I'm going to assume that I'm in his room, now, if his mom was talking to him but couldn't see any of this. The door's gotta be closed, obviously.

Cartman sighs again, only more quietly this time. "Stupid bitch…" he mutters under his breath. I can feel the hot air coming from his mouth brush upon my now-exposed stomach. It's sickening, and I shudder involuntarily. This seems to direct Cartman's attention back towards me, as suddenly I hear, "Well, I told you not to fucking move!"

I want so badly to shout back at him, and to fight him, as I normally would, but I find that I can't. Christ, what's been happening to me lately? Never would I have normally dreamed of doing the things I have been. Going so far as to be killing people? Getting myself into these messes? Seriously, what—what the hell? I never asked for any of this.

Nothing happens for a bit. I know I should be more worried about my current physical state, but there's only so long one can direct worry to a specific idea. I'm a bit more worried about me in general. I know I used to have some graphic dreams when I was younger. Even when they were in appropriate situations, they would still pretty much all be melodramatic. But it seems that as we kept on doing more and more stressful things, they got worse and worse.

And it's not like they were about to disappear entirely, but still, then what the hell is the cause behind everything blowing out of proportion?

I make a resolution right now. That I'm going to try to get all of this shit stopped, _for real_. To get things back to the way they should have been, before too much pressure overcame me and I snapped, for god knows what reason. And one of the things that I used to do was to fight with Cartman.

"Well, what the fuck were you thinking, even doing that in the first place?" I snap out at him, and struggle against my bonds even more, all-too-willing to kick his ass.

Upon finally saying those words that were so desperately trying to get out, my shoulders are gripped, and Cartman's fingers dig into my skin. I'm roughly jostled about, all the while Cartman talking to me. Talking in a fairly normal and level tone, just a really, really pissed off one. "You deserve this shit! This is nothing compared to what you've done!" he snaps, and finally releases his grip on me, throwing me back into the wall.

Does he… know what I did? Nah, Cartman wouldn't fight back for a bunch of innocent lives. He wouldn't give a shit about those. He must just be looking for a good excuse to vent out a bunch of pointless anger on me, for some reason. Well, fuck him.

"I swear to christ, Cartman, if you don't untie me this fucking second and tell me why I can't see, I am going to start screaming at the top of my lungs. And your mom will come in, and she'll find out what's going on in here. And then the police will come in, and you'll be arrested so goddamn fast—"

"You wouldn't fucking dare," Cartman snarls, "or I'll slit your throat and get you finished off right here and now."

"You wouldn't fucking dare do _that_," I respond, my tone increasing in smugness quite a bit. "You said you wouldn't kill me. You know what'd happen if you did."

"And what do you think is going to happen to me now?" he snaps back, and suddenly I feel that freaking knife pressed up against my neck. I recall the self-made memory, of that killer dude doing the same to me before, except that never really happened. So I'm a bit unsure of what to make of this.

Though that could be just the key to this whole thing. Maybe this isn't real at all. It'd sure explain some things. Like how nobody's come after me, despite actually ending some lives for no good reason. How I haven't died yet; and, hell, why I've been acting so goddamn weird. And why I can't see: Because my mind can't comprehend any of this, and so, thusly, cannot see any of this, either. Because _none of this is real_.

So now I've got to take everything with a grain of salt, and figure out what exactly is _really_ going on, and what to do about it. Alright, things are looking better now. This, I can do.

Cartman isn't really pulling these stunts. So I duck away and under the knife, roll off to the side, and attempt to stand up. But my legs are bound together so tightly that I can't do that. So I end up simply crashing back down to this nasty, smelly carpet, and I find the small adrenaline rush I had from my recent discovery rapidly fading away.

So even if this isn't real, it'd still be pretty nice to get out of this situation.

Something tells me to get the hell out of the way, so I do just that, and force my body to flip over on its side, again and again and again, efficiently rolling away. And as I do, I feel a whoosh of air nearby, and I feel something splitting. It's the rope around my ankles. I can move my legs a bit more freely now.

But then I accidentally bump right into a wall, and flip back over, lying on my stomach. I sigh and just lie there for a bit. So this isn't real, but if I can get my mobility back, then I can get myself back into the real world faster, I bet…

Just as I'm trying to think of how I can achieve this, a foot is pressed down on my back, right above where my wrists are bundled together. Pressure is exerted, and I find myself gasping and choking for breath. Maybe a knock into unconsciousness in this reality will send me back to the real one…?

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" a voice demands from above, and I make no response. I can't really do anything, now can I? And words are wasted, since he's just going to keep talking, anyway. "Do you have to be reminded of the situation you're in right now?" Yup, I was right. "You're in no position to be trying to mess around here, Jew!"

If my eyes were open, it'd be pretty easy to see me rolling them. Instead, my eyebrows simply shoot up in response. "Yeah, right. I've figured this out, Cartman. You can't do anything to me now."

My body involuntarily jolts as the knife's point is forced right down into my arm, about near the placement of my left elbow. I grit my teeth in pain and strike up another injury to the charts.

Hey, wait a second. If this isn't real, then does that mean these injuries are going to disappear? That they never happened? Or am I subconsciously doing this to myself in the real reality? Shit, this is messed up…

"If I can't do anything to you, then how did I just do that?" I can't see it, but I know for a fact that Cartman has a smug, irritating grin on his face: the kind he always got whenever he won a bet the two of us had made. And adding further insult to injury, and further injury to other injuries, I can feel the blood making its way down my elbow and onto that nasty carpet.

I could answer him so easily, but I decide not to. That might just enrage him further, and even though there's nothing to worry about, I'd still like to make the best of my time here. Unfortunately, I'm in too much of a compromised situation to do much, so I simply demand, "Let me up."

"What?"

"Let me up, Cartman. And while you're at it, free me. Get rid of these ropes, you asshole," I say, purposely leaving out the part about my eyes. I know that the reason I can't open them is because this isn't real. I've already figured that out. So there's no point in asking for too much. I can make do with full body movement, anyway, I'm sure.

Naturally, he doesn't listen to me. Hell, he totally ignores me. The foot is removed from my back, and I hear the sounds of his footsteps moving in a direction away from my position. I'm unable to stand up, but at least I can sorta move again. I wiggle my legs around a little, and find that the other ropes have come a bit loose.

So it seems only the wrists and ankles were tied _that_ tightly. I squirm around a little more, and soon enough, the ropes have loosened. Slowly, but surely, I get to my feet.

And the second I'm able to finally accomplish the everyday task of standing up, I suddenly receive a slash on the back of my right knee. I can feel the blood pouring from that wound, too. God, there sure is a lot of blood. The floor in here must be a mess.

Well, that's not my problem. Relying on my sense of direction only, I kick out with my left leg, and I'm satisfied with my target, as it causes Cartman to stagger back and stumble around a little. I hear a dull little 'thud' as he falls to the ground.

Yeah, right in the balls.

This time it's my turn to stick my foot on his back and exert pressure downwards. "Now who's in the compromising position, huh, Cartman?" I sneer, relishing in that long-lost joy of being able to kick Cartman's ass. "This torturing me crap is over." I can still feel the stinging pain in all of these injuries he's randomly given me: conking me on the head, cutting through my elbow, getting me right where the knee bends and thus making it rather painful to walk (even more than before), and making one, long, random cut on my stomach.

Hell, speaking of my stomach, when was the last time I ate? It aches at the thought of food and I realize that I have no clue what's going on. But now I can suddenly feel it getting warmer. It's like… The sun's rays, I bet. So it's… morning? And because it's winter, it's that late in the morning? Good god, already?

Wait, doesn't Cartman have school today…? "Cartman, what day is it?"

He grunts, so I kick him. "What day is it?"

"Saturday, now. Saturday morning," he mumbles, and then throws my foot off of him. "What the hell do you want, Kyle?"

"Cut the rope on my wrists and let me move my arms again!"

"What, so you can attack me more?" he snaps, and I shake my head.

"Look, I'd like some circulation back in my hands again, okay? Do you want them to fall off?"

"I don't really care if they do or if they don't," Cartman mutters, and I groan to myself. Hell, the best shot I have at returning to the real reality is to become fully mobile again. So I guess I've gotta beat some sense into Cartman so he'll help me out a little here.

I lash out with my left leg once again, this time catching him in his flabby, fat stomach. I think my foot just got caught in there. "But look, you're not going to do anything else to hurt me. Got it?"

Maybe I'm just sounding stronger than I was before, or this sudden flip in attitude surprised him. I don't know what it is, but Cartman just sighs. "I'll free your wrists, on one condition."

Ah, so that's it. A catch. I'm immediately suspicious, and my eyebrows furrow. "What is it?"

"You can't tell anybody about this at all."

"Deal," I respond, eagerly. I won't have to worry about that, as long as I'm right.

He spins me around, but instead of cutting through the remaining rope, he just leaves a small slash down my back, right below where my wrists are actually bound together. "Cartman!" I snap out. "What the hell?"

"Oh, come on. Like you don't deserve punishment?" he snaps right back, seemingly regaining his backbone. "Fucking take it! I'm not about to free you!"

"I don't know what I did!" I spit right back, and in his face, too. "And what the hell is going to stop me from telling anyone, either?"

… Hold on. I'm not about to achieve full mobility any time soon, so does this mean I'm going to be stuck here? No way, it'd wear off eventually. But how long has it been already? No way would a hallucination last this long, in this kind of clarity. Each of my injuries starts throbbing more and more, and something dawns on me. That maybe this is actually real. That this has all actually been happening.

Oh, god. No. Please no.

It is. But… some things in the past must have not happened. But now I can't be sure of anything, so I should treat every situation like it's real.

Christ, I could've been fucking killed by doing the things that I did! Since when am I that reckless? No more, never again. I'd rather play it safe. I'm going to play it safe.

Something else dawns on me, and I try to open my eyes again. I fail in doing so, and it just feels like it's pulling at my skin again. I can't get the lids and the skin under my eyes to separate, no matter how hard I try. And if this is real… then what the hell is stopping me from opening my eyes? It'd sure be nice to see again.

"Hey, Cartman. How come I can't get my eyes open?"

"What, you just realized that _now_?" Cartman snorts, and kicks me down. I fall backwards and land on my ass on the ground. "I'm not about to just let you get up and leave, either. You still…" His voice just trails off, leaving me there, totally clueless.

"Answer me!" I snap. I get no response, and all I hear is his door creaking open and then shutting again. Just leaving me right here, great. Fucking jackass. Feeling something behind me – his bed, it seems – I lean back and sigh.

Of course he isn't going to be very cooperative. He's still bent on getting revenge on me, for whatever it was that I did. And he's done a good enough job, for whatever my opinion's worth. Hell, he's gone way overboard. This is too much for whatever it was that I did to him. I need to get the hell out of here.

But it's hard to direct yourself when you can't see, and it's hard to make your way around when you'd leave a bit of a blood trail from quite a few different cuts. That and it's really hard to do anything nowadays without the use of your hands. Sure, I could use them a little, but not in a very efficient manner.

God, I'm so stupid. And how useful is somebody who's been mangled and mutilated this badly? And someone who can't even get themselves around? Good god. And throughout this whole mess, I've been pretty damn weak, only growing a spine later on. And pathetic? Oh, yes.

Weak, pathetic, stupid, and useless. Yup. That does a pretty good job of describing me right now.

I hear the door creak open once again, and shut rather quickly, yet quietly, creating a bit of a 'whooshing' sound. The only logical thing to assume from that is that Cartman's back. Another 'whooshing' sound fills the air, and something warm and moist lands on my lap. I look up quizzically in the direction I think Cartman's in, and get a vocal response in return.

"It's a washcloth. Rub it on your face. I'm only doing this for you so you can see what's been going on all night here," he explains.

Just a washcloth…? What the hell? "And how the hell am I supposed to do that if I can't use my hands, dumbass?" I snap, hoping that maybe he'll actually cut the rope this time and free them.

"Fine, then I'll do it for you," he snaps right back.

I can't help but mentally feel that that the action sounds pretty gay. So what, is he still hot for me…?

Pain across my face stops my mental rambling as he rubs my face really, really roughly with the cloth. It's like a raw, scrubbing feeling, right over my eyes. I sit there and take it, but only because this is going to help me see again. I guess he wants me to actually see what he's going to do to me next, too. And he's obviously still not going to let me go, because how the hell am I supposed to get anywhere if I wouldn't even be able to open a goddamn door? I mean, I could, but without him stopping me? Yeah, right.

We both sit there in silence, and eventually, the scrubbing stops, and I hear him stepping away from me. "Alright, try opening your eyes now," he commands. I obey, eager to see (finally) for myself.

It still hurts to try, though part of that is probably because of all of the raw scrubbing at my face. But I succeed, and finally get a chance to look at the state of Cartman's room.

For the most part, it's been kept in order, with only a bit of chaos among the items. But I can clearly see some blood stains on the carpet, in addition to the big one that Cartman seems to have left from when I shot him in the foot. It's right next to me, actually. But the newer ones are a bit more subtle and dotted and strewn throughout the entire room. There are even a few on some spots on the walls. Those ones stand out a bit more, due to the wall being of a lighter colour, but there aren't that many and they're small, so it's still a bit harder to see.

And some spots have bigger blood stains than others, of course, like when I remained in just a few spots for a longer period of time. Like when he got me in the elbow; there's a bigger patch of blood there, right in front of the door, actually. And that reminds me…

I glance down at my own body, not interested in the room anymore. My shirt's been torn through, and the blood is only now starting to dry. Sticky paths have made their way down my gut, which, itself, has a fairly random, scribbled, almost zigzag-y path there. Fortunately, it's not too deep, and so, there isn't as much blood as there has been in other places.

I'd look at the back of my knee, or at my left elbow, but I can't. So that just leaves one thing. "So… Wait… What, exactly, was keeping my eyes shut?"

Cartman wordlessly points me in the direction of a mirror, so, with a bit of a struggle, I stand up and take a look at it. My reflection stares back at me, bags under my eyes, and I can confirm that my cheek wound has, in fact, reopened. But that's not really the part that matters.

Just barely, I can make out a cut, on my forehead, under my mess of curls. But said curls are practically glued down to my forehead. And there are quite a few dried paths of blood making their ways down my forehead. And in addition to the bags under my eyes, there's blood crusted _over_ top them. And, um, around them.

… It was blood? No. There's _no possible way_ that I could have bled _that much_. It's not possible. At all. No way, no way, no way. Not from there.

"I did that when you were unconscious," Cartman states, "and that was it. Then I just waited for you to come around, and then decided to manually wake you up by cracking you in the head, since you took so damn long."

Okay, so, this can't be possible. Which means that this isn't real. But Cartman seems to acknowledge it, and if this is real, then that means that it _did_ happen. But it's not possible. It's simply not possible. So… what is it?

And he still plans on doing _more_ to me? Good god, what fucking else? No way. I have to get out of here. I should have died here already, but I'm not going to give him the chance to do this any more to me. I can't let that happen.

But my wrists are still bound, so all I can really do is run around his room to try to escape him. And since it's a small space, and there are plenty of obstacles in the way, not to mention the fact that I've bled too much and I haven't eaten anything in quite a while…

And then Cartman comes right up behind me, and peers over my shoulder. "Yeah, it's nice to know how weak you are, isn't it, Kyle? How pathetic you are? How stupid you are, how useless you are?" What the hell, are we on the same wave here, or something? Whatever. I'm not going to let him continue to try to manipulate me into thinking his way. I just really need to get the hell out of here.

My eyes suddenly shift over to the side he's not on. His chin is resting on my right shoulder, so I glance over to my left, after seeing something in the mirror. And I catch a gleam, and notice that it's the sunlight coming in through his window that's reflecting right off of the blade. It's positioned just about an inch lower than my initial neck cut.

Panic quickly takes over, and, like the first time this happened, I duck out of the way before he can say or do anything else. I feebly kick out with my left leg. It's nice that it's the one that isn't hurt, because it's the one closest to him. I do that, and I quickly run for the door, which is still closed. I slam my right shoulder into it, trying to get it open, as Cartman takes a slightly slower than normal time composing himself. It's probably due to the fact that this was so sudden, and just in general because he's fat. And that just makes him a bit slower in general.

Nothing happens the first time, so I back up and slam myself into the door again, and this causes it to open. Trying to close the door quietly didn't close it very securely, I note, as I dash right out of his room, determined to not let him lay a hand on me again. I sprint for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and then just plain jumping right off of them once I'm about halfway down. I stumble on my landing, and, just barely retaining my balance, make for the front door. Through a miracle, it's been opened. I don't know why it is open, and I don't really care why. The important thing is that it's open, and I get right out of the house and sprint off down the street. In full fucking broad daylight, bleeding all over.

I'd run around to the back, but that would cause a detour for me, and I'm not interested in slowing my time down in the slightest. And besides, not too many people should be out now, anyway. It's a _Saturday morning_. Really, who the hell gets up that early on a Saturday morning?

I should be heading home first, but then I'd just get shipped off to the hospital, and that means that I might lose this chance. So I take off in a different direction. My house just happens to be along the way, but I don't stop there, and I keep running, hands tied behind my back and leaving a small blood trail.

Even if I'm not heading for home, at least here, I'll be able to get a bit more help. Possibly more than I would be able to anywhere else. I just hope nothing obstructs my way, because there's a fair chance of that. But I'm due for a bit of good fortune, so hopefully, nothing will happen.

My feet pound against the sidewalk, the thuds falling in time with my heartbeat.


	24. Refreshment

_It's about a week until the first episode of season eleven gets announced, and I can honestly say that I'm… not totally stoked for it. I should be, but ever since that new Simpsons movie trailer aired last Sunday, my mind's been focusing on that show and that show only. I've seriously gotten so much more ridiculously into it lately that it's just, well, ridiculous. It took everything I had in me to even chug this out, but I'm trying to keep the weekly updates thing intact because I really, really want to get this finished so I can start working on other things. Here you go, have fun with it._

* * *

Dull aches are pretty easy to ignore after they've been there for a while. They don't really get in the way at all, especially when you have a good idea of what you want to get done, and you're determined to do it. Besides, they're only dull aches. Stings are way worse. Those hurt when you're actually moving. This is just… dull. Dull aches.

But the fact that they're still present does suck. It still is a hindrance any way you look at it. It strengthens the burning sensation in my chest from running so hard when I probably shouldn't be doing so much physical activity at all. It'd be pretty nice to be able to be in total comfort again, without another care in the world except for your next adventure with your best buds (who are not psychopaths). And more importantly, being in a pain-free body. Not to the extent that people with CIPA have to go through, but to the extent where you aren't in constant pain. It's great that I should stop doing this now, but I'm not about to, because this is something that I have to do, physical limitations or not.

But assuming that I can so easily overcome what my body is trying to tell me to do is horrendously arrogant, so… Well, I know I can't, put I'm going to push myself until I collapse and die, anyway. If anything, I was asking for it, right?

But the burning feeling starts to grow and grow, so I have to slow myself to a jog. I'm pretty sure that Cartman wouldn't be able to follow me, anyway. No matter how hurt I am, I can always outrun that fatass. And thank god that so few people would even bother getting up and outside at this time. I'd definitely be stopped and questioned about running down the street, bleeding and with my hands tied behind my back, and I don't want to attempt to explain my way out of that.

Besides, I… don't want to get Cartman in trouble. It sounds really odd, especially coming from me, but he doesn't deserve this. I mean, I'm probably being too forgiving here, but I'd like to expel violence from my life. I don't want revenge or anything, that'll just create more revenge, and we'll get stuck in a big loop. There's no point in that. I just want this all to stop. I think that's a reasonable enough request.

As I slow my pace down, I look back over my shoulder, and see my house just behind a few other ones. I'm really, really thankful that my family is Jewish, now. They wouldn't even be at home at this time; they'd be out, at Synagogue, on a Saturday morning. I probably could've gone back in there and not have had to worry about being questioned, but them being out is another reason to go to Stan: so that I can have _somebody_ I trust cut this fucking rope.

Really, it's ridiculous that it's there in the first place. It keeps on digging right into my skin, and it stings. At the very least, though, it's not a slash. That's a plus.

Eventually I have to slow myself to a walk, but luckily, I'm pretty much there by the time that time comes. That brings me to another dilemma, though. How the hell am I supposed to get Stan? He'll definitely still be asleep. I know Stan. He's asleep. And it's not like I can let myself in, after all, his parents might be up. That and the fact that I can't use my hands at all.

So this is a pretty big fruitless mess.

I look around, trying to think of some way to get in. I end up wandering around to the back and side of the house, right under where Stan's window is, and somewhere behind a fence. And that's when my energy finally gives out, and I collapse, falling back into the snow. It's so cold, it feels so nice. It's soothing and it's… wet. Oh, well. The important thing is that it feels nice.

But it's so bright out now, too. The sun is reflecting off of the snow and it feels like it's purposely singling me out and getting into my eyes. I close my eyes, blocking the rays from directly getting in there, for all of the good it does. But it, too, also feels nice. It's that pleasant kind of warm, matching right up with this pleasant kind of cool. It's just perfect…

I feel the agony fade away, except for some of the dull aches, but hell, it's good enough. I'm lying on my back, though, which is kind of uncomfortable, considering the fact that my fists are right underneath me and there's a big lump resting against my back, but hell, I don't have enough strength to turn over. This is good enough as it is.

I wish I could freeze time and just lie here forever, forgetting about everything else…

My mind vaguely calls out to me to remind me about Stan, but that thought barely even lingers for a second. Everything feels so fuzzy…

I feel the sun's warmth suddenly disappear, and I snap my eyes open, wondering what caused this sudden change in temperature. Now there's no warmth at all, just a pleasant coolness. How long was I—

It's a shadow falling across me. A rather fat shadow.

"I knew you'd be here," says Cartman. He's holding my knife.

I gasp and my upper body jerks upwards, my eyes opening for real this time as I barely manage to suppress the scream forming inside of my mouth. The sun's warmth is gone this time, and there's a shadow falling across my body, too. But it's a much smaller one.

"Kyle? What the hell?" asks a bemused Stan, looking down at me.

I calm down and turn my neck, looking around at my surroundings once again. I look up at the sky and notice that the sun is in a much higher place than it was before. Guess I dozed off, and a couple of hours passed, which would explain why Stan's even functioning. And the fact that I did pass out behind his house, shielded partially from a fence, would explain why nobody else saw me lying there. Stan must've looked out of his window recently.

I'd love to give him a much more cheerful welcome, but I'm afraid that all I can manage at this point is a groan, and then I flop right back down and into the snow. "Ow," I mutter, falling right on the lump that is my own hands as I fall back. "Hey dude, ya got a knife on you?"

* * *

I rub at my wrists, shuddering as I feel the indents the rope made on my skin, but still thankful that they're free again. We're both sitting out in his backyard in the snow, upon my insistence. It's still nice and cool out here, and it's secluded enough. And I'm just really, really enjoying this feeling right now. I finally got to catch up on some sleep, my hands are free, the pain is pretty much gone… It feels nice. I'm sitting cross-legged, even.

"I'm not buying it, dude."

"What? You're joking, right?" I spit back incredulously. "Isn't there enough evidence all over me? Is the sight of me not proof enough?"

Stan's eyes rove over my body once more, and I can't help but feel just a little bit giddy. "No, I mean I'm not buying that he did all that you think he did. I think he tricked you into believing that."

I give my best friend a blank stare in return. "… Huh?"

Stan sighs and points right at me to try to illustrate his point. "Okay, so it's definitely true that you're covered in cuts, but you knew you were doing that. … Hey, why'd you do that, anyway?" I look down at the ground and blush, not really feeling too comfortable in explaining my own reasoning as to why I hurt myself so badly. It's kinda embarrassing telling it right to the person you were thinking about. "Well, nevermind. But you definitely haven't been hurt as much as you think you've been. That's just not possible."

"I knew it! But still, it felt like it. And even he acknowledged it! Cartman acknowledged all of these things that he did to me…!"

"And you're trusting him?" Stan snorts. "Like I said, he was probably playing that into you. I don't see any cut on your elbow, or your knee, or anything. There's a small one on your forehead but it's hardly anything, though there is something still stained around your eyes a bit. No way, dude, all of that definitely did _not_ happen."

"Well, crud," I say, shifting my foot just a little to kick up a small flurry of snow. "I guess that's good on one hand, because that means that I'm not about to die or anything. But it's still playing on my warped sense of reality a bit too much for my liking."

Stan simply shrugs. "Hell, I'd rather you be alive and not completely here than just being flat-out dead. It's not the best situation, but it sure as hell is better than some alternatives."

"Mm… yeah." Just then, I feel my stomach sending me sharp pains, and something clicks in my head. I must've been totally unconscious and in Cartman's room for at least a couple of days. And that means that I haven't eaten in a couple of days, either. "Uh… Stan? … Food? I haven't eaten in a whi—"

"Yeah, yeah," he says, waving his hand off at me and standing up. "You coming?"

I stand up, but feeling sharp pains around my stomach and then my back. That reminds me about that small cut I got on my back. "Um, wait. Could you check one thing for me first, please?"

"Yeah, what is it?" he asks, turning his head to look back at me.

I sheepishly grin and turn around. "There was another spot, right on my back, below where my wrists were tied… Could you check that out for me?"

"Sure." He walks back towards me and presses his fingertip on my back. "Where is it?"

"Um… not there, higher up, and to the left," I respond. The touch feels so nice. His fingertip roves around a bit, and it hits the right spot. I keel over, jerking forwards and clenching my teeth because that stings like a bitch. "Yeah, you found it."

Stan bends over as well, leaning just a little on me to take a closer look at the spot he found. He pulls at my skin a bit, pulling the skin on the left side of the cut to the left, and vice versa for the right, and I find myself biting my lower lip to avoid crying out in pain. "Dude, it's a really, really tiny cut. You're overreacting."

"It _hurts_," I hiss back.

"It's _small_."

"It _hurts_."

I lie back down in the snow again, in the shadow of Stan's house. Stan stands over me. "Hey, didn't you want food?"

"Isn't your family at home?" I inquire. "I don't wanna risk anything. They'll call my parents; my parents will freak out and smother me…"

"As they should," Stan says, blowing a stray bang out of his face. "You missed your shrink. You were supposed to come see me afterwards, I think. Instead you had your parents freaking out over you, and crap, I was worried, too. Don't let that happen again."

"Don't let wha—" I hardly even get the chance to respond to him before he stalks off. To get me food, I assume, though he's probably pissed at me, too. It's not like it's within my control, though, so I don't get why. I didn't _mean_ to randomly ditch the people that I care about. Hell, it's not like I had a say in the matter. I didn't wanna get kidnapped, it wasn't my choice. So I couldn't inform you of it. Yeah, it sucks that you had to worry, but come on, Stan.

Berating my boyfriend in my head isn't really going to do anything, though, so I just enjoy the cool feeling of the snow. I've used that word to describe snow a lot. 'Cool.' I can't really think of anything else, though, because it _is_ rather cooling. And for some reason, even if it is just a small cut on my back, it still stings way, way worse than any other part of my body.

I throw one of my hands across my eyes to shield them from the sun. I'm about to doze off again, despite the pain in both back and stomach, when I hear footsteps crunching in the snow once again. I sit up a little bit, eager to see both person and what person is carrying.

Stan sits back down. "Here," he says, starting off cold and despondent, like how he was when he first left me to get me this stuff. But he soon brightens up again, dropping the 'cool' attitude and gets back down to business as I gorge. "There's something else I'm not buying, y'know."

"Mmph?" I ask, and then swallow my mouthful. "What's that?"

Stan idly starts tracing random patterns into the snow with a gloved hand. "Well, this whole 'revenge' thing. What exactly did you do? Sounds to me like he's just trying to justify it himself, and convince you the whole time that you deserve it."

"But I never thought that I deserved it."

"So he kept on trying to convince you. I dunno," my companion says, still drawing things in the snow. "But I'd sure like to see him and kick his ass. Unfortunately, I'm under house arrest, so I can't do that."

I raise an eyebrow and continue to eat at that remark. So, house arrest? Of course, Stan wouldn't get off, scot-free, with being expelled. Pausing in my latter activity for a moment, I say, "Y'know, we should just sic my mom after them. She'd get us unexpelled pretty quickly, I bet."

Stan grins. "Yeah, your mom's a pretty big, annoying bitch." I decide to not comment on that, opting to continue eating instead, but I do make a point of changing my body's posture to a more aggressive one, as well as narrowing my eyes. Stan just grins even wider at that. "Hell, you just admitted it a bit yourself, so don't go off glaring at me. Besides, that can get us back on track."

I swallow. "Yeah, and then we just have to knock some sense into Cartman, and things can get back to normal."

Stan leans backwards and looks up at the sky. "Yeah, except for Kenny. I wonder where he is, anyway?" I flit my eyes back and forth a bit nervously at this remark. I still haven't told Stan what I did. I don't know if I want to. Cartman did bring it up in front of Stan and I earlier, but Stan definitely didn't take him seriously…

I don't say anything in response, though. So if his mind is lingering on the subject, it may draw a conclusion I'd rather not be drawn. That does remind me, though. Kenny might've shown up again and I just didn't know about it. He might just not want to see me, but for obvious reasons. Then again, why not visit Stan?

I cease to stuff myself as I find myself getting a bit of a stomach ache. I just feel so bad right now. Who would've known? Who knew that his time would run out for good this soon? And why did it have to be me? Is that it? Is this my punishment for not having a clue as to what's going on? Destroy my life, and have me actually take away my friend's?

Kenny dying should never be dramatic. Never. It's silly to even think of it that way. It just doesn't fit in my brain. You always think, "Hey, it can never happen to me, or somebody that I know." And then it does. And then everyone is unaffected by it. So you push your luck, and it's gotta run out eventually.

And boy, do I ever feel like shit for that. I pull my legs up to my chest and hug my knees, burying my face into them. I'm not about to cry, I just feel so awful.

And of course Stan would notice my behaviour. We had an awkward period of silence, so he was probably looking at me, anyway. I feel his arm wrap around my shoulders as he leans his head onto mine. "What's wrong, dude?"

"Nothing," I mumble, voice obscured due to the fact that I'm basically talking into my pants.

Another awkward silence ensues, and I can't even bring myself to look up. I'm as worthless a friend as they come. I killed one, I did something that made another snap, and I just have one left. And I already had a big enough falling out with him, who knows when it'll happen again?

I lift my head up and stare at the fence surrounding Stan's backyard. "I just feel so low right now."

"Why?"

Once again, I end up providing no answer. What am I supposed to say, anyway? This isn't something I… I don't even know what to do right now. All I can even do is sit here, so dully.

It's like I'm feeling feelings of lingering depression. No matter how much I deny it, maybe Cartman did get through to me, somehow. It's odd to think about it, because I still don't get what exactly it was that I did. And I just had hope for this mess earlier, and suddenly, I can barely find clarity in it at all.

My eyes glance over to Stan, who's sitting on my left. I don't think he notices that I'm watching him. His own eyes are half-lidded, kinda like mine, but I can't tell what he's looking at. Or what he's even thinking.

It was like this the first night, too.

I'm desperate for conversation again, but I don't think I can talk to anybody about sorting this mess out, because this is all up to me. And I hate this feeling of independence, because it's not what I'm ready for at all. I've seen how I'm able to conduct myself. I don't trust myself, I _can't_ trust myself. I need somebody to guide me through every little bit of my head, and that, in itself, is embarrassing.

I still have no future. That's probably why I'm feeling so miserable right now.

At least the snow is still cool, and it still feels nice. That's one thing making life worth living right now. I should be happy; I'm with the greatest person ever, but we just aren't able to talk right now, it seems.

My gaze looks past Stan, and further down, down at what he was doodling in the snow just a few minutes ago. I find myself putting a lot of pressure on my lower lip as I bite it, a jerk reaction from seeing the word he's written. I don't get why it's there, and I don't get what compelled him to put it there, but nonetheless, I still don't like it. It shouldn't bug me this much at all, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. Damn roots.

The silence needs to be broken, and I need to get my mind off of this. Except Stan happens to break the silence before I get the chance to.

"You should go home, dude. Your family's definitely worried, and look, it's getting darker out."

I turn my gaze upwards to find that I've totally neglected my surroundings, other than the snow. Even the temperature I ignored. Of course, it's still winter, so the sun does set a lot earlier. And the sky is already turning darker, and prettier colours are settling into the mix. I can barely even see any yellow anymore.

"Yeah, I guess…" I mumble, reflecting on what had happened the last time I saw them. I had just had a good of a time with my dad as I could've in that state. And then… I don't know what happened. But logic does defy a whole lot of this. "Something's up," I say, suddenly a lot more audible and awake.

Stan lifts his head up and looks directly at me. "What?"

"You pointed it out yourself earlier," I state. "That there's no way that some of this stuff could have ever happened. So something's up. What I was doing before was questioning if that specific situation was real, but what if this whole thing, from the start, is just something stupid I made up on my own? What if I'm just in a comatose state somewhere else and this is keeping me occupied?"

Stan rubs his eyes and blinks. "So wait, you're saying none of this is real at all?"

I shrug. "Maybe. I dunno. Though I'd rather it not be real, so all of this shit can be avoided."

"Dude, trust me, it's real," Stan says flatly. "I'd love to think of this whole thing as just a load of crap, seriously, but it's real."

I'm uncertain about saying the next statement, since I'm not too sure how he's going to react. He's been kinda moody throughout this visit, acting like his normal old self, and then suddenly turning callous or pissy for no _good_ reason. It's kinda like Cartman. Me, too. There aren't any good reasons in any of this.

"… I don't know if I _can_ trust you, Stan."

I look him right in the eye as I say this, and mentally brace myself for his reaction, but all he does his gawk. His eyes don't even widen, his mouth just hangs open a little. It soon closes, and he suddenly leaps right up and looms over me. "So this is what this has been to you, huh? Throughout all of this shit, and you can't even take my word for it?"

"Dude, calm down," I try to reason. "It's just a theory. I don't really know myself."

"But you don't think you can trust me."

"Alright, what the fuck is up with you, Stan?" I suddenly demand, turning more aggressive as I, too, leap up. I'm only just a bit shorter than him, so he isn't that intimidating, despite how skinny and weak I've gotten due to lack of eating. I stick my finger into his chest, rather forcefully, as he has to take a step back to maintain his balance. "You're making no sense at all! You aren't _this_ emotional, for chrissake, you're sounding like a fucking chick! Snap out of it! This is an abnormal situation, okay? I don't know what to do myself! So don't go off on me, bitching that I can't throw myself blindly at you like you'd like me too. This involves more than you, you know!

"I'm the one dealing with this right now! And I don't even remember half of what I've done, so it's not like I can even share any of this with anyone and work it out with any help! I've got to… Aw, fuck! Just quick acting like such a fucking douchebag!"

Almost immediately after I finish he shoves me backwards, and I stumble, and fall, landing on my ass in the snow. My arms are thrown back behind my body in order to keep my upper body above the ground, and Stan looms over me.

In my mind's eye, there's a quick succession of two flashes, transferring this image to that small dream that I had earlier, and then back to the real situation. And I start to feel uncomfortable, having just seen Cartman loom over me. That was _definitely_ not real, but it just gave me this feeling that I—

"You can't… Christ, Kyle! Stop thinking of only yourself for once! It's all you, you, you now! 'I'm in this situation by myself, no one else can help me, none of this is real!' Yes, you totally just made all of this up by your fucking self, and for the hell of it, threw in several other people and personalities that your mind can't even begin to fathom. Of _course_ that's what happened. So what's next, continue playing the game?" He kicks out at the snow in frustration, and I hold my hand up for him to stop.

Wearily, I get up, and look around, and then grab Stan's arm and drag him further back behind his house. I look around again, and lower my voice to a whisper. "Okay, look, dude, let's stop this nonsense. You're right, I really should be going now, but I've got to give you something first. This is bigger than whatever the hell we were just arguing about, so let's just drop that, because it wasn't going anywhere, anyway. I'm sorry for whatever it was, and I'm sure you are, too." My voice quickens as I feel like something really, really bad is about to happen at just this moment. "I don't really care what happens to me here, and you could probably use this more than I could. Don't ask why, because I don't know myself. This is all I can think of to do, though, so don't screw this up."

Glancing around rather quickly once again, I reach into my pocket, incredulous that the weapon is still there. I pull out the gun and shove it into Stan's hands. He looks down at it and blinks, a bit baffled by what just transpired, understandably. But it's best to not let this grow into a bigger fight, and this damn feeling keeps on persisting at me and this is honestly all I can think of to do. It's the best action.

"Kyle, I don't—"

"Don't argue, Stan! Just… don't, and trust me, please, okay? I know I said that I can't even trust you fully, and I'm sorry about that, but I still can't. But I'm going to figure this out, and I… Look, I don't know. I really don't. Just take it."

"Kyle—"

"I really, really should be getting home now, dude," I whisper back. My heart is pounding from the sudden speed I've taken on in my actions. "Just think about this for me, okay? That none of this fits into decent logic at all. And I'd rather you have that thing more than me."

"But—"

I wave him off, finding the strength to hop his fence and dash around the back to my own home. I think we're good again now. We were earlier, and… That was nothing. Yeah. We're fine.

Upon passing a few houses, I realize that I have no idea what the hell I've even done.


	25. Done Deeds

_I am SO EXCITED for the new season now! My god, and judging by that Entertainment Weekly article, it is going to KICK ASS. New episodes won't get in the way of my weekly updates, though. I'm still working on this, and we're getting quite a bit closer to the end now, too. That makes me happy, but it's still quite a ways off. Regardless, here's another chapter, enjoy, etc!_

* * *

I need a good grasp on things. That'll assure me that what's going on really is, and then I'll finally be able to make sense of all of this. A good grasp will also mean that I'll have a good hold of it, in the literal sense, too. It won't be able to get away from me, and it can't be used against me, because I'll have it. And that's just what I need. I can't get anything done if I don't have this.

In order to achieve this, I need simplicity. Simplicity is often underrated for the flashier, fancier effects. People want complicated things, for some reason, even though simplicity just makes all of our lives that much easier. Is it that people feel the need for a challenge? This conflicts with humans' general laziness and selfishness, so how does that work? Really, I'm as much for a challenge as anyone else, and probably moreso, even, but I'd rather it be within the boundaries of reason. This is not. So why am I going through all of this? Shouldn't this just be one of those things that if I ignore it, it'll go away? That'd sure be simple.

But if I'm so much for simplicity, then why did I just do something I didn't understand? Why did I trust myself solely on a gut feeling? Sure, gut feelings are fairly simplistic, but this is a more potentially dangerous gut feeling. And I'm really not too sure about that. Of course, if I could understand everything as a whole, then there would be no need for questions…

What is it with questions, anyway? I don't want questions. I don't want made-up excuses. I just want answers. Nothing more, nothing less – aside from some peace of mind. But peace of mind can easily be reached as long as I get these answers, so…

The weight of my injuries suddenly comes crashing down on me. My ignorance of reality finally abandoning me, I lose my footing, and then I realize that I had just been standing still. I hadn't moved since my initial stop upon realizing that I didn't know what I was doing. And yet I fell, face-first into the mild snow bank building up behind these houses. My legs just kind of… snapped, gave out under me. And I didn't even notice it.

Fuck. The pleasant coolness of the snow from the afternoon is gone once the sun sets. Now it's just a biting cold. And now that I'm actually feeling really hurt again, and now that I'm starting to feel frozen, I'm not sure if I can actually make my way back.

I manage to pull myself forward with my elbows, and then bring my face up and out of the snow by putting pressure against the ground, too. From there, I slowly hoist myself upright, and lightly touch my forehead. My head is throbbing, and I can feel blood flowing down it once again, surprise surprise. I blink and let the settings around me have their way with me.

And then I remember, once again, that I do have family worried about me. It's been days. I need to get back home, for their sake, at least. Sure, you can't choose your family, but it's not like that fact is going to make me hate them. And I'm sure they're worried about me, anyway. And that it's not that fake, generic, only-because-we're-family kind of worry. It's probably genuine.

And besides, it offers free protection. And it sure as hell beats being out in the freezing cold.

I drag my limbs, ploughing through the snow and trying my hardest not to collapse again. Simultaneously, I'm sure to keep my mind active, because if I don't, I'm sure that'll freeze, too. And I'm so sick of cold right now.

I have to blink a few times as blood will obscure my vision, and I don't want to try to expend the energy to wipe it out of my eyes. It's not very nice, but Stan and I don't live too far apart to begin with. I've just been slowed down by outside factors.

And outside factors continue to suck. They continue to get in the way, make things more and more complicated, detracting the simplicity and increasing the unnecessary challenges of life. It's not fucking necessary, but it exists anyway. But really, I think I've been humbled down enough, now.

Not only is this unfair to me, but it's unfair to others, as well. It's unfair to those who care about me. Or maybe something is just smiling down on the ones who hate me. It's very appreciated, I can say that much. There's nothing more that I like than amusing some jackass who has no good reason to hate me in the first place. Hello, Cartman.

I blink rapidly a few more times, trying to clear my eyes. There really isn't that much blood, but I think I'm slowly but surely losing consciousness. And feeling, too, since I'm already starting to lose sensation in my toes, as well as my fingers. I didn't think it ever got this cold in January, but it probably doesn't help much that I'm not in very insulated clothing, and the clothing that I do have has been torn all over. I'm wearing glorified rags. Awesome.

I stop my trudging for a moment and lift my arms to tug my hat further down on my head. It's still very, very intact. I'm so, so thankful for this, because this is really what connects me to what I was more like before all of this happened. I've always worn this hat. Always. And it's gotten me through everything. Christ, it's so stupid, but if I were to lose it…

Each movement I make seems to stand out all the more to me now. I lower my arms and resume my walking. My leg movements are stiff and forced, but they're getting me somewhere. It's not very quick, and I still can't see my house, but I might not even be able to do that until it's staring me in the face, anyway.

Adding to my luck and the gayness of outside factors, it starts to snow. This further obscures my vision, and makes it colder, but at the very least, it's a light snow. It's not a flurry, or anything, which I am so thankful for. I remember being excited for snow when I was younger; my friends and I. We'd go out in play in it, chuck it at each other and make snowmen out of it and have endearing mishaps…

Growing up fucking sucks. But I never would have seen this in my future, anyway.

And suddenly I stop moving. I bend my head down oh-so-slightly to find my legs rigidly standing in place and doing nothing more. I try to move them and nothing. I try to move my arms and nothing. I'm stuck, and I can barely feel any of this. I guess not being able to feel would normally be a good thing, but I feel a stinging pain, anyway, for some reason. This isn't even a true numbness. I just can't get a break anywhere.

And nobody knows that I'm out back here, probably. I don't see my house anywhere near me. I open my mouth to shout out for help, but no real sound comes out. I'm going to die here. I'm going to freeze to death and this will have all been for nothing. Maybe that's why I gave Stan the gun? So that someone else would be able to protect themselves? Or even go on a violent rampage?

Except that's not in Stan's character, really. Then again, I didn't think it was in mine.

The worst part of this is that I'm painfully conscious. My vision has been darkening, my blood freezing, and sensations are ebbing away. And yet I'm still fully alert. It makes no goddamn sense. It's just more needless torture to stuff me through. What did I **_do_**?

Something is tossed at me from behind, and I fall over from the force of the impact, stiff as a board. The something flutters down on top of me, and over me. I manage to make out part of it. A thick, heavy blanket.

Honestly, though, I don't think that that's going to do much good at this point. I need full-blown defrosting, not just a fucking blanket.

I'm just barely able to make out the scenery starting to move, even though I can't move myself. I'm lying on my side. Which, I'm not sure. But I'm not warming up at all.

Just barely, I can see my house. But whatever it is that's going on causes me to pass right by it, and I stare after it as long as I can. 'Cause, well, damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit. I need to let my parents know that I'm still alive. I need to get back in there and not let them worry any more. Because worrying about people sucks, and it's time consuming, and just not worth it, especially when the person is alright. It's another one of those fucking unknowns that further complicates life.

I lose all recognition and just watch the snow go by instead, not really wanting to close my eyes in case they freeze shut. I just went through something similar to that. It is not happening again. But eventually I stop and change direction, and soon enough, I feel the air around me warm up.

And I'm forced right back into a radiator, and my back stings with new burn marks. My body lurches forward immediately, and I lie down on the carpet, recognizing this as someone's home. But it's not my own. So, then who…?

"Get up," someone commands, and kicks me in the side. I wince and feel even more pain as feeling returns to my body, and attempt to obey, but I'm unable to. I'm kicked even harder. "Get up."

My mind is still fogged up, so I'm really not too sure what the specifics are of where I am, or who just saved me. This treatment isn't all that great, but it's better than freezing to death. And I feel like I should be grateful, too.

Warmth continues to rush right into my body, and I shudder at it. I can move that much, but I can't get up, no matter how hard I'm pushed to. I feel completely immobilized. I'm kicked again, and I can feel the pain really getting at me now. "Get up," the voice hisses once again, and suddenly, I snap right to awareness. Well, my body doesn't, really, but my mind sure wakes up. I recognize where I am, I can identify that voice, and I manage to get myself up on my hands and knees.

And then I'm kicked right in the stomach, and I cough up a small bit of blood. I look upwards to find Cartman standing right in front of me. He gazes down at me, coolly, and I'm so confused.

"Cartman…?" Cartman just saved my life? _Cartman?_ If you hate someone so much that you just torture them, why the hell would you go out of the way to save their life?

I then realize that we're in his living room. I vaguely wonder where his mom is, but find that I don't really care. Even if she did come down here to find this, she wouldn't be able to stop her kid. The people who you should be relying on are so fucking worthless.

"Get up," he snaps, kicking me once again. I cringe and double over, not appreciating the abuse and trying to escape it by curling away from it. Such is a natural body reflex, and such is a stupid one that doesn't get you anywhere. The body is really, really worthless most of the time.

When I don't comply with what he says, mostly because I can't find the strength, he kicks me again. And again. And again. And I can't do much to stop it, but upon finding the smallest bit of spare energy, I lash out with one of my own legs, kicking him and apparently hitting a weak spot, as it causes him to fall over.

My mouth gapes open when I see that he's now bleeding, my knife having pierced him somewhere in the leg. He must have had it on him somewhere, and his falling over shook it out from a safer position to one that could actually stab.

But I do feel a bit better, finally seeing someone bleed other than myself. And it's also quite a bit nicer to see that the one who has been causing me so much abuse is the one who's doing the bleeding. But I'm still confused.

"Cartman? _You_ saved _me_?"

He grunts. "I wasn't going to let you be mother nature's bitch. I'm not done yet, Kyle. You…"

"But… you _saved_ me?" I stutter out once again. The idea is so incredulous that I just can't wrap my mind around it.

"I just fucking said—"

I cut him off. "Yeah, but…"

This time, he cuts me off. "Fuck," he snaps, pulling the knife out of his leg's side and pushing his fat body off the ground to elevate himself to his full height. The tallest one out of all four of us. And I got landed with the shortest. Judging by physical appearances only, it's not that great of a deal for me. "Look at what you fucking did. God damnit!" he shouts, throwing the weapon with a good deal of force right into the ground. My foot twitches back, narrowly avoiding being impaled. I blink.

"That was your own fault."

Upon failing to get a smartass answer in return, I look back up, and finally succeed in elevating myself up to my own full height. It's not quite a head shorter. I see what he's doing. He's just standing there, his back facing me, clenching his fists. My eyes rove down to his leg, where a noticeable blood trail can be seen making his way down his legs. His jeans are obscuring the view, but you can still see it. And I've been there before, so I get that he's in pain.

It's not the right thing to do, but kicking a man while he's down is nothing foreign to Cartman. Besides, Cartman's an exception to this rule. Because, well, he's Cartman.

But first – the logical parts. "How did you find me?" I snap, slapping his back. This action catches him off guard, and he is just barely able to keep his balance in check. "Well?"

"I know you," he snaps back, whirling around suddenly and catching me off guard with this reaction. I take a step backwards, a bit taken aback by his own glare. His narrowed brown eyes stare right at my blood-surrounded ones. "I know what you'd do. Where you'd go. It's obvious."

I look right back at him, and tilt my head in a sign of confusion. "Um…"

He takes a step forward, stomping on my foot in the process. I wince, and then turn my own gaze into a glare directed straight at him. "So, what else do you plan to do with me?" I demand, shoving my hands out and pushing him backwards. "'Cause I can fight. You don't have me in a vulnerable position this time. So what the fuck are you going to do now? Nothing? 'Cause, y'know, I was so sure that you had confessed your love to me not—"

Cartman punches me right in the nose upon that, and I feel it start to bleed. I hold one of my hands up to my nose, catching the rushing blood in it, and glare at him. He takes this opportunity to collect the knife again, and continues his speech. "Don't you dare fucking say that. After what you've done! Not even to begin with could I have…!"

"But you did! This couldn't possibly be because of that, could it?"

"I thought I… Fuck, Kyle. Just… Fuck! Do you not listen? I…" Cartman stumbles about in his words, most likely due to just how pissed off he must be due to my bringing up of the subject. "I said I never wanted that to happen, and it's gone now, anyway. I was right. It was just a temporary thing. And it was caused because there was something about seeing you in such a vulnerable state that—"

I raise my eyebrows at this. "So that's why you put me in one yourself before, huh? To create that again in hopes of loving me again? Or did you just attack me because _that's_ what I did to you? I accidentally made you love me? So this is your revenge?"

"Don't trivialize things!" he snaps out with such force that I take a step back, just to be sure. "Drop the gay thing already! Just fucking drop it!" I swear, foam is gathering around his mouth. "That has nothing to do with this! This is… Fuck you, Kyle!" And he attacks me once again. Fortunately, I'm still the stronger of the two of us. Since one hand is keeping a hold on my nose, my other hand draws back into a fist, and I send it flying right into somewhere on his face. Cartman stops and switches emotion rather quickly, from anger to intense pain. Christ, it's not even like he's bleeding or anything. Just like old times.

"Then tell me what the fuck it was that I did!" I give him my verbal backlash. "If you don't want me trivializing things, stop making me guess! Tell me what the hell I did to deserve this from you! What justifies your actions? Or can you not tell me this because there is no justification, and you're just too scared to admit it? Because that will finally show you that you're _wrong_? For once in your life, you'll admit that you were in the _wrong_?"

Cartman rubs his sleeve across his eyes. "I'm not in the wrong!" he shouts back. "You know what you did!"

"I've done a lot of things!" I yell. "How the hell am I supposed to know which one it was that specifically pissed you off so much? I'm not a mind reader; I don't automatically know everything that you do!"

"You murdered my best friend!"

"You have no proof!" It disturbs me how easily I'm able to shoot back with just that. No heartbreaking, saddening reactions. Just an immediate claim for my innocence, of you can even call it that.

Should I be surprised that this was it? I mean, I did keep Kenny in my thoughts for quite a bit, but I didn't actually think it'd be applicable to _this_. And since when does Cartman even care about anybody other than himself that much, to go to such an extent of getting revenge for them? It's probably partially because this is me, after all, I guess, but really, well, still.

I'm trying to recall what happened back then, when Cartman first pulled this shit on me. He wasn't as violent or destructive back then as he came to be now, but we were younger, so that's to be expected. But what stopped him was Kenny stepping in. Kenny performed a self-sacrifice for my sake and was able to hit it off pretty well with Cartman.

And it's almost like with Kenny gone, Cartman's lost it all over again. … Just like when I lost Stan. Oh my god. I am _not_ this similar to Cartman. No way. No freakin' way. It's… I don't want to admit that. Ever.

"Are you kidding me? Since when have you ever used a weapon before?" Oh, god, the parallels. "And then you randomly shoot me in the foot. Since when do you have a gun? Jews don't use guns!" He… just said that? What? "And then, Kenny doesn't show up the next day—"

"So?" I lash back right away. "He could just be taking a long time! That doesn't mean he's dead for good! And how the hell does that point to me, anyway?" I think I'm a bit too much on the defensive.

Cartman's getting visibly angrier as he gets to his point. "Who uses guns? Poor people! And that was definitely a poor person's gun, with crappy bullets and everything. Besides, the last time I heard from him was that day you and Stan attacked each other. So you were already violent."

"That still doesn't prove a damn thing, fatass."

"You're being overly defensive and nervous whenever I bring it up. He's your friend, too, so why haven't you shown any remorse? Don't try to deny it, Kyle. I know that you killed him, you know that you killed him." Cartman takes another step towards me, and we're so close now that our noses are touching. "I have never been this pissed at you in my life. You probably have that gun on you right now. Show me."

Well, at least he is right in one area: That we both know it, and that there's no sense in denying it. But hell, I can try, anyway. If I can just manage to weasel my way out of this…

"I don't have it," I state. And I'm telling the truth. Is this why I gave it to Stan?

I get glared at. "Of course you don't," Cartman snaps, rather sarcastically. He raises the knife up into the air, and points the tip directly at me. "Of course you don't have it. Which is why you aren't using it to defend yourself…!" He thrusts forward, and I leap backwards.

"I'm not playing around, Cartman!" I have to cry out, dodging the knife that should be my own. "I really don't have it with me! Stop this!"

"So you'd rather die than admit that I'm right?" Cartman snaps, and his eyes flare up even more. "You are disgusting! You're a sick, horrible person, and I should be doing so much more to you!" He lunges again. "Stop avoiding this! You know you deserve it, taking away my best friend's life for no reason!"

"So hurting me is going to fix things?" I demand, quizzically. I've decided to give up the charade now. There's no convincing him, anyway. And to prove my point, I turn my pockets inside out, hopefully showing him that I really _am_ telling the truth when I say that I don't have the gun on me.

"Yes!" he snaps back, his gaze focused on me and me alone. He isn't even acknowledging the fact that I don't have a weapon on me at all. And I see no logic or reason anywhere present within his speech.

"How?"

He knows his answers right away. "You hurt me by killing Kenny, so I'm getting back at you by hurting you."

"And you really think Kenny would have wanted you hurting one of his other friends in revenge."

"What Kenny would have wanted doesn't matter!"

I'm… baffled. I'm so very, very baffled. So, Cartman's upset that I murdered Kenny. That's understandable, even if he doesn't know under what circumstances – even though said circumstances are weak and foolish. And yet, he's totally disregarding Kenny for his own personal satisfaction. He really is selfish and will look for any excuse. It makes me wonder if he's sincere in this case at all.

And this continues to draw me to parallels of what's been going on with _me_ recently. Of course, Cartman doesn't know anything about that. But… well… still, it's a little… I can't quite describe it, but I really don't like it. And that puts me on the same level of hypocrisy as Cartman.

"So you don't really care about Kenny?" I venture the question.

The response I get makes me cringe slightly in worry. The rest of the cringing comes from just how loud Cartman's voice is. "Don't you ever fucking DARE say shit like that!" he shouts. "I… He was fucking…"

"What is it about him that you care so much about him, Cartman?"

"He actually cares about me!" Cartman throws the knife this time, and I quickly duck to avoid it as it embeds itself in a picture, hanging on the wall behind me. "When nobody else did—"

"Nobody else cared about you because you don't care about anyone else! Even now, as you claim to try to be getting back at me for another person, it's still all about you and only you! The only reason Kenny stepped in and decided to help you out is because he's a good person! He puts the lives of others above his own!" And… And that's why he let me kill him, I silently add. Because he was concerned for my own safety, and he knew that this wouldn't hurt him too much.

Or at least, he thought he knew. And I thought I knew, too. But he still hasn't come back yet, and I really have brought this all on myself. And through what? A gut feeling. That's what initially caused me to kill Kenny. A gut feeling. So what have I done now, giving Stan that gun…? That was a gut feeling, too. I… I can't think of anything. There are so many different possible outcomes and I have no idea what it's going to officially turn out like. Naturally, I'd really like to know, but I won't until it happens.

And by then, it could so very well easily be too late to do anything to protect any of us. Fuck, I wish I knew what was going to happen…

"So you're saying," Cartman interrupts my thinking, "that Kenny didn't care about me in the first place, and it was just his nature that drew him to me?"

"Pretty much." If this is breaking him down, then I'm revelling in it. After all the crap I've heard from him just now… And he's acting like he's the victim? God, I should be laying this on him even heavier, for Kenny's sake.

I side-step to avoid Cartman's swinging punch. "Take that back! He… I… He wouldn't do something like that! He's my best friend!"

I can't stop the words before they come out of my mouth. "You don't know what a best friend even **IS**!" I shout, placing a great deal of emphasis on the last word. "You don't even know what a friend in general is! God knows you've never acted like one yourself! And—"

"And you're perfect with Stan, right?"

"That's a true best friend."

Cartman stops shooting his mouth off and stops to think for a second. I watch him as he walks forwards and pulls the knife out from the picture, staring at the blood on the blade. This thing hasn't been cleaned. There's so much blood on it from so many, and most of it is mine. That's _my_ knife…!

I make a grab for it, but Cartman simply raises it out of my reach. Fury overtaking me, I tackle Fatass down to the ground, clawing at him in desperation for that weapon. I don't know what's come over me, but I've got a feeling similar to the one I had when I gave Stan the gun.

But there's something else mixed in with it. It's more or less totally envy. That is mine, the knife is mine, not his. He should not have it. He does not have the right to it. It is _mine_.

I make grabs for it, but he's got a firm grasp on the handle, and I just can't get it. I'm so desperate that I'll just grab the blade. Fuck the consequences of bleeding palms and whatnot. Just as I'm about to, because I want—no, _need_, I'll actually _die_ if I don't get it—so badly, Cartman kicks me off of his body and lifts himself off from the ground. He turns the blade around, observing the way the lighting in the room changes its reflection on it, depending on the angle.

"So you just came to the same realization that I did, huh, Kyle?"

"… What?" I demand, confused as to what he means, and angered that he still has it and I wasn't able to get it back. I make another move for it but he holds up a finger, signalling for me to stop. I don't know why I do, but I do.

"You took my best friend away from me…" So he's gone to totally ignoring what I just told him, now. Fuck the truth, right? The truth doesn't fit into his means, so he's going to pretend that it isn't like that. That Kenny actually did genuinely care about him, and not that it just wasn't in Kenny's nature to put others before himself. It's because of me that Kenny even did this, because he was worried for my safety those three years ago, so he stepped in and made Cartman feel like he had somebody, so that Cartman would leave me alone.

Because I had Stan. I had somebody to care about me, and I had somebody to reflect that exact degree of love right back to. A great sign of a perfect friendship; two people so close to each other that they can trust each other with absolutely anything and everything. Cartman didn't have that, so Kenny stepped in to make sure that he had that.

Wait a second…

He wouldn't…

"So what's to stop me from taking your best friend away from you?" And suddenly, what I did makes sense.


	26. Wild Eyed

_I deeply apologize for how lame and stupid this chapter is. Really. Try to enjoy (and… review?)._

_On the plus side, season 11 started off very nicely. I'm so fucking happy to have new South Park back again._

* * *

And just as suddenly, he turns and pulls away from me, heading for the door. His posture is fairly relaxed, but I know Cartman. He's determined to get this done, and he'll be damned if he lets anything get in his way. And I'll be damned if I let him even attempt to lay a hand on Stan. So either way, one of us is damned… and I sincerely hope that it's him.

Cartman's pace speeds up to one of a speed-walk. I quickly dash ahead and stop right in front of him, holding my arms out in a vain attempt at stopping him. "Cartman, don't do this!" I cry out, half-pleading, half-ordering. But he just shoves me aside. It's a sad fact of life: he's bigger than me, but not to the extent where he's rendered useless; and so, he's stronger than me when it comes to brute force. I stand there dumbly for a moment before trying to block his way once again, but he just repeats his previous action. He doesn't even attack me. He just gets me out of his way.

I switch my methods, and try to use a bit more violence. Of course he was just going to ignore whatever passive methods that I threw at him, but there isn't much harm in trying.

Unless, of course, I just end up costing time. But it's not like Stan's defenceless. Even if he didn't have that gun, he'd still be able to put up a pretty good fight.

But nevertheless, I still have to try to spare Stan from being put in that kind of a situation. It's not fair to him, especially because this is all my own fault. So I switch my methods, and use a bit more violence, leaving the warmth of Cartman's house a few seconds after he has, and slamming my body against his. I just barely make him stumble off to the side, but he rights himself right away and shoots me a glare.

"Kyle, don't get in my way," he warns, and I stare right back at him. I must be such a pathetic sight: scrawny, with cuts all over my body, visible because of all of the cuts in my clothes, and those are pretty much just hanging off of me as it is. Compared to Cartman, who's relatively big and sturdy-looking…

I can still take him. I shake my head after realizing that I'd just zoned out, and run after him. He's further increased his pace now, but I'm getting excited, so I can feel a lot more strength. It doesn't feel nearly as cold as it did when I was last out here. But this time I'm actually in the streets, and not out back, and this time I have a much more urgent purpose… I just really can't let this happen.

I tackle Cartman from behind, knocking him to the ground. The knife slips out of his grasp and my eyes light up. I leap over him to retrieve it myself, but he suddenly lunges his arm out and catches my ankle. I trip, and he rights himself, throwing me back a bit as he does, and getting the weapon back for himself. "What's the matter, Kyle?" he demands, turning to face me with a taunting grin on his face. I struggle to push myself up, and I'd so be giving him the finger right now if I could. "I'm not even going after you anymore. What do you have to worry about?"

I stop in my actions and simply gawk, as he turns back around and starts up a jog. Upon regaining my awareness, I call out after him, "You really have no idea what any of this means, do you?"

I get no answer in response. I've already lost him. I barely stopped him at all, and already, he's getting away from me. Stan is not going to be expecting this, and I have no idea how well he'll be able to defend himself.

I have to get there first. If only Cartman hadn't been friends with Stan, too, then he wouldn't know where he lives. But no such luck for me there. And that's what makes this even more messed up. Cartman and Stan are _friends_. And yet Cartman is perfectly willing to kill Stan over me. So his hatred for me is stronger than his love for anyone else? That's… sad, really… I can't say that it's nothing I haven't speculated about before, but now, it's actually showing itself. Cartman is showing just how serious he's willing to be.

To be so obsessed with such a negativity, to ignore all other positive factors in your life… And that's just what I was doing not too long ago. Does this mean that if I've learned, Cartman will come around, too?

… No. Of course he won't.

Realizing that I'm losing precious time, I shake my head and slap my forehead, and then I run faster than I ever have in my life. There's no possible way I can make it there first – not with that head start and my fatigue. But I can at least try to not give him too much time there on his own, and just pray that Stan's parents will be there to stop things from getting too out of hand.

But Cartman is too clever to let himself get stopped like that. It's scary and sad, but it's true.

So I run faster than I ever have before, my heart beating wildly. I've been running back and forth so much today, but even if it wasn't for that, I'd still know the way perfectly. I memorized it a long time ago. And that's going to be useful, since my vision is still obscured by blood.

* * *

About a house stands between me and my destination. The night isn't too dark out here, mostly because the snow is so bright and it helps even things out. I rub at my eyes and get a fully clear vision at last, and now, I can finally see that I've definitely gone the right way. I stop my flat-out running, feeling my heart pounding and my chest burning. I take in a deep breath, shuddering as it stings, and calmly walk the rest of the way. It isn't much. 

I look around, seeing no activity going on outside. I look up at the house's exterior of the second floor, hearing nothing coming from up there. I turn my head over to the driveway and see the car absent. This late at night?

It could just mean that only one of his parents is out. I run up to the front door and try to open it, but it's locked. The doorknob jiggles as I struggle with it, but finally give up, and proceed to look for the hidden key. But it's not there. I look in whatever backup spots that it could possibly be in that I can think of, but I don't find it anywhere.

So I try the back, now. But that door doesn't open, either. I run around the entire house, checking the first floor's windows, but all I can see through them are calm, serene, and empty shots of the living room, dining room, and kitchen. And I can't open the windows, either.

I proceed back to the area where the key should've been: a window that would lead into the basement. There is absolutely no point in it being there, and it's small, but it's the only one I have yet to check. I can't knock because I don't know what's going on in there for sure, and I'd rather find out myself.

I might just be able to crawl through this thing, if I can get it open. I don't have anything to cut glass with, but it's an obscure little window, so it shouldn't matter too much if I…

Glass shatters and shards of it get embedded into my skin. I ignore the blood flowing down my arm, and do my best to put the stinging pain out of my mind. It's bearable. I reach in through the hole that I punched, and successfully pull the screen door out of the way. Bits of protruding glass are still present, and it's going to be a tight enough squeeze as it is, so I have to get rid of those. But… time is running out so fast. I don't know where Cartman is, and I don't know if at least one of Stan's parents is home or not, but I have to at least check. And fast.

I hold my arm away from the window this time, but the pain I'm feeling distracts me and I take a look at it. It isn't that bad, and the glass fragments, while a decent size, are not too numerous, and they aren't causing much damage. I don't pull them out, and instead lash out with my leg at the remaining glass, squeezing my eyes tight as I hope that no more comes flying out at me and piercing my body anywhere else.

I do this a few times, and I open my eyes to see that I have as safe of an entrance as I'm going to get. I haven't gotten hurt anywhere else, which is good. I flip over so that I'm on my stomach in the snow, and start to crawl backwards, my legs passing through the window first. They manage to get through just fine, and I carefully ease most of my torso through the hole, too. Now all that's left are my arms and my head.

I lift my hands up from off the ground, and kick out with my legs against the basement wall, and then grasp the metal frame of the window with my arms quickly. I push out against it, ducking my head and making it all the way through.

Now through, I'm clinging to the edge of a window, dangling above the basement floor. I look down and see several glass shards all broken into tiny pieces littering the area directly beneath my feet. Hopefully I'll be able to drop down safely, without getting any more cuts…

Letting go of the ledge, I fall down, and end up landing on my ass. I wince in advance, expecting some glass shard to have jut pierced my butt, but there was no need to be worried about that.

Carefully, I get up, standing to my full height. I look around the basement and note that there isn't much down here. That and it's pretty silent here, too. If anything is going on in this house, it's on the second floor.

Suddenly remembering the threats being faced, and why I did this so stupidly to begin with, I dash up the stairs and onto the first floor. I come up to meet a hallway. Still nothing. Looking one way, there's the kitchen, with nobody present in there. Looking the other way is the entrance to the house, and right about where the stairs are. So I head for there.

I walk to the living room, which is where I need to go first in order to get upstairs, and stop right in my tracks upon seeing Stan's mom right on the couch, a book in her hand. Frantically, I back up, looking around wildly. One of the front windows catches my eye, and I see that it was possible for me to get a clear shot of the couch from the outside. So this means that she just came here recently.

I can't wait much longer. Cartman could still be in here. I can't hear anything coming from upstairs, so I don't really know, but it's still a possibility. And I have to find out. And I have to make my way past Stan's mom, because really, who knows what she thinks about me right now? That and my current physical appearance in general. Nobody's parent has to see that just yet…

I take a few steps forward again, hugging the wall. I look around, and see that Mrs. Marsh's eyes are half-lidded, and sleepy-looking. I switch walls to hug, and sneak around the other one, because the stairs are closer there. I inch forward, little step by little step, completely silent. She doesn't look up. When it comes to the point that I get to be right in her line of sight, I pick up the pace, and slip right around and onto the first stair. I hear the rustling of pages, so I duck down to all fours and huddle there for a moment. Upon not hearing anything else, I scuttle up quickly, still on all fours, keeping low.

On the upper level, I quickly dash around and hug another wall. My heart is pounding in my chest, but I don't think I was seen. I still don't hear anything coming from any of the rooms, though. So maybe Cartman didn't manage to make it inside after all… I don't know. Best to be sure.

I step out into the middle of the hallway and walk, normally, down it, until I'm in front of the door that leads to my best friend's room. I put an ear to it, and hear nothing. So I slowly open it up, as quietly as I can.

The sound of semi-heavy breathing reaches my ears, and I peek around the door to find a standoff. And I find both Stan and Cartman there, both standing, not making a move. Cartman has the knife ready and is in an attacking position, but he looks a little flustered. Stan has his arms extended out, holding the gun, with a finger on the trigger, pointed right at Cartman.

I open the door further, and Stan briefly takes his eyes off of Cartman to look at me. His eyes just take a glance sideways; his actual head doesn't even move. But that's all that Cartman seems to have needed, because he sees that distraction as his chance, and so, he lunges. The knife's tip adjusts its position to be aiming for Stan's throat.

While being aware of the need to be quiet (sure, parental involvement would put a faster stop to this in the short-term world. But it's better for the long-term if we work this out for ourselves), I take my own action and slam myself right into Cartman, making him falter in his step and cut Stan's shoulder instead.

To my surprise, he doesn't cry out at the sudden pain, nor does he seem shocked at the blood flow. Stan doesn't even look at me as he pivots, pressing the gun's barrel right up against Cartman's forehead.

The shot would make noise, and that would be quite a hard noise to _not_ hear. And it would be obvious that it was Stan who did it. So Stan can't do anything, and Cartman knows that, too. So the latter person ducks away from the gun, falling to the ground and coming back up. I have to step around to avoid him. I'm more of an observer in this right now, sadly.

In a move of sheer brilliance, Stan chucks the gun right at Cartman's face. Through sheer luck, it being a poor-person gun and all, it doesn't go off, but now Stan is left without a weapon.

"Shit," he mutters, and his eyes flit over to me. "Kyle—" he starts, but doesn't get the chance to finish as he grits his teeth in pain, and clamps his right hand down on his left upper arm, where Cartman just slashed at him.

That's enough for me. I keep distracting Stan from this and causing him to get hurt. So without taking into consideration what I'm doing, I yank out one of the glass shards from my arm, just remembering that they were there. It's the biggest one. More blood flows down as that wound is further opened, but I ignore it and use it to cut the back of Cartman's dominant arm.

This time it's his turn to bleed. With something the equivalent of a growl, he spins around and raises the knife over his head to cut me down. Fortunately for me, I'm not alone this time, and Stan reaches out with his right hand and grabs Cartman's arm before he can do any damage. Stan isn't that tall, either, but he's stronger than I am.

Cartman glances back and forth, knowing that he's outnumbered. He snarls. "Let go of me, Stan," he snaps, and upon getting no answer, he looks over his shoulder to stare right into Stan's eyes. The blue doesn't seem so gentle anymore, and Stan looks so pissed off. But he remains totally calm, something really odd for him, since in a situation like this he should be a bit more worked up. He slides his hand down Cartman's arm, eventually coming to the fatter hand. And that's when he eases the grip and takes the knife for himself.

The gun is behind me, so nobody else can reach it. So taking the next possible best course of action, Cartman draws his fist back and punches Stan in the face. I dive in to have a go at Cartman myself, but he catches me by the throat – something I find uncomfortable because of my cut that's still there. Stan comes to my save and drives the knife right into Cartman's leg.

We all know we can't scream, or yell, or anything. We do that and we're all fucked. So Cartman balls his hands up into fists and squeezes his eyes shut, then punches out at Stan again. The force is actually strong enough to make Stan fly back, but the knife remains in Cartman's leg. Fatass pulls it out and holds it right up to my throat. I can't do much more than kick out feebly with my legs as it looks like he's about to stab and go right through my neck.

"Don't…" Stan and I both say at the same time, meek whispers. Stan rights himself again and grabs onto Cartman's arm for dear life, pulling it back and preventing my death. His legs are dragged across the carpet slowly, as Cartman still tries to reach me. He can't, though, and I reach up and dig my glass shard right into his hand. I'm dropped, and Stan gets stabbed in the gut.

Thank god not nearly enough force was used. Sure, Stan lurches backwards in pain, and falls back down on the ground, and it's only now that I note his black eye. Stan pulls the knife out, and shakes his head. His bangs fall over his eyes, but he knows that this is officially a matter of life or death for us now. Of course it's not for Cartman, though. The two of us actually have a conscious; we couldn't kill him like he's trying to do to us…

Or so I thought. I gasp upon seeing Stan stand back up and pressing the knife, rather forcibly, right up against Cartman's throat. "Alright," he snaps, and presses even harder, "this is how it's going to work." I quickly look around and note the gun still lying against the wall, and figuring that I should follow Stan's example, I pick it up and aim it right at fatty. "You're going to fucking stop this, and you're going to agree to it right now, or I'm going to kill you right now." He presses the blade up against the skin even more, and I can see the beginnings of a small cut.

The three of us remain in our respective positions for a few moments, and nothing happens. Stan removes the blade, but I keep my hands firmly on the gun. After seeing Cartman just nearly kill Stan a few times in only the past few minutes, I do not trust him.

Stan looks over at me. "Kyle, lower the gun."

"No."

"Kyle." Stan's eyes flash, and he gives off an almost menacing growl. This is really starting to disturb me. "Do it."

"Give me that knife and I will," I respond, remembering my desire to have that thing back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cartman finally remove that glass shard he had embedded in his hand. I ignore him, although I know that I shouldn't do that. Instead, I focus all of my attention back on Stan, and I motion to him with my hand to give me the knife. "Come on."

Stan glances at Cartman, and then turns back to face me. "Fine." He reaches out towards me with it, and just as he's about to place it back in my hand, finally, Cartman makes his move and slashes the back of Stan's hand with the glass shard, and claims the knife for himself, dropping the shard.

"Son of a—!" Stan mutters, and snatches the gun right out of my hand, turning it in Cartman's direction immediately. "You fucking douchebag!"

Cartman merely grins cockily. "I'm not done here. I need to extract my revenge—"

"Is that supposed to make things right?" I almost shout, and both boys give me a warning glare. I glare back at Cartman.

"No, but it sure as hell will make me feel better," he answers.

My arm still has a few more pieces of glass in it, so I pull another one out, wincing as I feel more blood flow out. "You are such a selfish bastard," I hiss, and hold my own weapon up towards him.

Three boys fighting in a single room, with three different weapons, who all have to keep quiet, doesn't work out as well as we'd all like. It's two against one, but one of our weapons is useless, because it'll be too loud. We all face each other off, Cartman's back facing the room's window as he holds the knife in one hand, pointing to the space between Stan and I. He can adjust it to go after one of us so quickly. I'm sure that he'd rather go after Stan, though. He wants me to suffer the same way I apparently made him, although the two situations are hardly related anymore.

But like I said, this isn't the most desirable situation. At first, none of us make another sound, and absolutely no moves are conducted.

To my surprise, Stan is the one to make the first move, breaking the standoff. He quickly moves over to my other side, and rips another glass shard out from my right arm. I wince and clutch at the spot, glaring at him, but I find myself ignored as my boyfriend quickly moves up to where Cartman is, knocking his right arm aside and causing the knife to go flying. My attention moves from the scene to the blade as I drop my weapon and make a dive for the knife that's caused me so much shit.

I whirl around suddenly, only to have my face meet a fat foot. Pressure is exerted and I find myself unable to breathe, or at least until I manage to shove the foot out of my vision. I right myself once again and see what's going on now.

Cartman alternates between using a glass shard and his own fist, pushing Stan down to the ground. In a rash move, I throw the knife straight at Cartman's head, but through sheer luck, he ducks. This distracts him just long enough for Stan to get out of the way and go after it, throwing the gun right into Cartman's face. Cartman snatches the gun and just about pulls the trigger, but I grab his right arm before he can and toss it to the side, causing his grip to slip and the gun to go flying.

Cartman nails me in the chest with the piece of glass, but not hard enough. At the same time, Stan goes after Cartman's unprotected back with the knife. The fattest one amongst us whirls around and tries to attack Stan, but he blocks, and I toss a glass shard at Cartman and reach for the gun again. The effects of two-against-one are starting to take an obvious visible toll on him, but it's not like Stan and I are totally better off, either.

Stan misjudges and winds up with another injury on his left shoulder as Cartman makes his way around him. His back is now to the wall, offering him a bit of protection, and of course he's going to stay there. Myself, I'm marvelled at how little noise we've made, and how we're still able to keep doing this… but there isn't much time for that. Cartman attacks Stan and successfully disarms him, causing the knife to go flying and nearly impale my hand. Thankfully, I move it out of the way, and then reach back for it right away. I look back and forth between the two weapons that I have, and then jump up and join my best friend.

I don't really want to attack – just defend myself, and Stan. Cartman looks back between the two of us, unsure, but seeing as how I have two weapons and Stan has none, he goes after Stan, sharp glass shard in hand. I throw myself in the way and disarm him, while at the same time, Cartman snatches the gun in my left hand. I pull back right away and Stan shifts backwards. He reaches behind him, grabs a blunt object – what, I'm not sure – and throws it right at Cartman. He's hit, and a crash is very audible. The three of us freeze.

The pause lasts a few minutes. Then Stan lunges for the gun, grabs it, and presses it right up to Cartman's forehead. Stan's breathing the heaviest out of all of us, and something tells me that he's about to collapse. I back myself up and closer to a corner, taking a look around. Nothing happens because all Cartman has now is his own body power to attack us with.

I've taken the least amount of hits, only gaining a few new cuts and scratches. My arm has very few pieces of glass remaining, and the bleeding has slowed. Cartman has taken more hits than I have; especially on his right arm, and hand, where we kept attacking him to disarm him. He's bleeding and has a bit of a limp now from stabbing right into his leg, plus his back has been scratched up and bleeding quite a bit. He's also bruised.

Stan got it the worst out of all of us, though. His chest heaves from the exhilaration and adrenaline, and I wouldn't be surprised if his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed right now. He's drenched in sweat and blood. His left shoulder is caked in it, as well as nearly his entire torso, and his legs a little, too. Wounds are clearly bleeding and he looks a little woozy. Definitely not in his right mind, from, at the very least, being totally exhausted, he pushes the gun to Cartman's head even more.

"You… fucking…" he huffs out, tears brimming his eyes' corners. I move forward to pull Stan away from Cartman, remembering how it can feel to have Stan point a gun right at you. You have no idea if he's serious or not. It's fucking creepy.

And as I do my knife gets snatched, and we're all back to our original weapons: Cartman with the knife, Stan with the gun, and me with my glass shards. Stan stumbles backwards and I further back off. Cartman brings the knife up to Stan's throat.

I step in to try to get this all stopped, but there's no need. Stan pushes himself away from Cartman. He stumbles backwards, nearly falling over. I rush over to his side to keep him standing, and take a good look at him, all the while keeping an eye on Cartman. Stan's both wide and wild-eyed, and a total mess. I'm not sure that he even knows what's going on, as he pushes himself away from me.

I have to wonder what the hell he was doing or what was even going on before I finally got up here. Sure, he has asthma, and sure, he was moving around and fighting quite a bit, but… god.

He somehow manages to right himself, but I knock him back down. "Stan," I hiss at him, but Cartman takes this opportunity to go after me instead. I somehow manage to avoid getting hurt too badly from that knife, and back away, whirling around and slamming my fist right into his face at the same time. "And Cartman!" I snap, keeping my voice low. "What the fuck? You aren't getting anything done by doing this! Just leave!"

Cartman nurses his cheek, gazing coolly over the two of us as I support Stan. Stan pushes himself away from me and manages to stand up on his own again, perfectly normally, without swaying or anything. The gun hangs limply in his hand, but he manages to hoist it back up and get himself back on track. His eyes look bloodshot, too.

"Fucking hell…" Cartman spits, and I grin in satisfaction.

"I knew it!" I shout out a bit too loud, but my grin grows broader. "I knew you wouldn't be able to actually kill one of us. You can't bring yourself to do that. You're all talk, but you can never follow through… Ahah, I knew it Cartman. You can hurt us all you want but when it comes to actually doing away with us, you just can't bring yourself to do it… You can't be taken seriously—"

I quickly pull my hand back towards my chest as he makes a move for it with the knife. I'm unharmed, but Stan flips out and throws the gun up, aiming it right for Cartman. His finger closes in on the trigger, just as the sound of the doorknob rustling fills the room.

I freeze, and Cartman freezes, but Stan, completely visibly panicked, whirls around and points the gun straight at the door. Just as it opens, he shoots, and the blast is incredibly audible.


	27. Catabolic Action

_I'm so sorry for how bad this is. Seriously. I really am. I've had basically no clue what I've been doing in here – all I have is a base idea. I should probably take a break from this but I just want it done so bad so I can get it finished and completely forget about it and work on something that I actually want to work on. I'm basically just writing this for my reviewers now, so that it gets completed. 'Cause I'm really so sick of this thing right now and god, I don't know. But I still do want to get it done, I've come too far to just let it drop, and I'm so close to being finished now. Don't take this the wrong way, just… enjoy?_

_This chapter's title comes solely from the fact that I had a bio final on Thursday._

_On the plus side, season 11 is continuing to be awesome._

* * *

Sound jumps around a bit, rearranging itself. Words that were said before the shot rang out only come to my ears after the gun is fired, then I hear the gun firing again (but it was only done once), and then my audio sets itself back to normal. 

"Hey Stan, your mom said—Holy shit!" Kenny drops down to the ground immediately, the bullet missing his head by a few good inches, thanks to good reflexes. It slams into the wall behind him. Kenny flips himself around, sitting on his ass and leaning back, staring up at where the shot travelled through the air, and where his head had just been a moment before. He then gets up, dusts himself off, and turns back around to see us – all still in positions ready to attack each other without a moment's notice.

I can't be surprised that Kenny came back. It's a normal occurrence. I am, however, completely relieved, but solely for my own sake. Maybe this'll now mean that Cartman will just leave me alone. He has no reason to try to get back at me anymore. And so, he should be leaving Stan alone, too.

I'm not even relieved about the fact that I didn't kill Kenny permanently. That worry slipped away a while ago; it was just kinda forgotten. It held no relevance to my situation, and it sure as hell doesn't now.

I snap out of my stare at Kenny, and look at Cartman. His mouth is agape, but it's evident that he looks as happy as he's going to in this situation. I look over at Stan. His hands are shaking.

"Wow, what the hell did I miss?" Kenny asks, rather light-heartedly. He observes each of us, 'tsk'-ing at the chaos exhibited in this room, as well as all of our obvious injuries. Stan's still bleeding, even, not to mention the rather evident red smears and droplets all over his room and possessions. I'm sure that we look like an even bigger mess to an outside viewer.

And suddenly we hear footsteps coming up the stairs, and Stan's mom cries out, "Stanley, what was that?" Mrs. Marsh's words seem to snap us all out of it. Cartman makes his way over to the spot where the door would open, so it would block his body from being seen. I dive under the bed, hissing curses to myself at the carpet burn that has now accumulated to my injuries. Stan looks about frantically, not knowing what to do. He can't hide, but he's still so wounded. And from my position, I can see that he's on the verge of tears.

He's completely breaking down.

"N-nothing!" he calls back, voice cracking, hoping that this will stop his mom. Obviously, she doesn't take his word for it. In a last-ditch effort, Stan gets into his bed, pulling the covers up and covering his bleeding (although at this rate, his sheets are gonna get ruined). Kenny continues to stand in the room like a dumbfounded, clueless idiot.

Miraculously, Sharon Marsh completely misses the bullet and doesn't even look at that wall, opting to only look inside her son's room. I can hear a few choking, rasping breaths above me.

My hiding place doesn't offer much in the way of sight for me. It's too uncomfortable to keep up the position of observing Stan's mom's face, so I flatten myself completely instead and stare at her feet. "Stan? Why are you in bed already?" she asks, and no doubt she's looking around the room. Things have gotten so fucked up in here.

"I—I'm not feeling well, Mom…" Stan replies, his voice shaky and breaths heaving and audible. God, he's hyperventilating.

His mom takes a few steps towards the bed. Stan gives a violent shudder that I can actually feel, and judging on the way the weight has shifted, as well as the sounds up above, he curls up tightly. I note how neither Kenny nor Cartman do anything.

"Please Mom… just… let me sleep a bit, please?" I hear a sob in his voice. He was just acting tough a few minutes ago. What the hell happened?

Mrs. Marsh backs off. "Alright, Stan," she says. "Kenny, you should think about getting home."

"Yeah, I will… soon," Kenny says.

The door closes and Cartman and I move from our hiding spots. Stan doesn't rise, though. I walk around to the other side of the bed so that I can see his face, which was against the wall. He's shaking, he's sweating, he's crying and his face is covered in blood, too. He doesn't have his hat on; his hair is ruffled and sticking to his skin where it's not sticking up. I lean down to Stan's eye-level.

"Dude, are you okay…?" I ask, hesitantly, bringing my hand up to his cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Cartman stiffening and Kenny's own eyes lighting up. But I ignore them, focusing on the more important matter at hand.

"Kyle…" Stan shudders, curling up further and stuffing himself under his blankets even more. He grasps my hand and clings to it tightly, not letting go, with both of his. I let him, and slowly use it to hoist him up, avoiding any chances of getting 'close' to him at this time. It doesn't even matter here that Cartman and Kenny are with him. It matters that he's breaking down.

Stan sits up on his bed, breathing heavily. I glance over at his bed sheets and note all of the blood stained on them, having flowed all across them in high amounts. He's acting a little woozy and his entire body is shaking. And I think he's about to—

I step to the side and pull Stan's growing hair back as he heaves and pukes. I hear two distinct "Aw, sick!"s coming from the other two people in the room, and I turn my attention away from Stan for a moment to glare at them. He coughs a few times and then flops back over, spread out on his bed. The cool, open air hits him, and he looks so awful. I'm sure it's incredibly refreshing for him. Except he's still bleeding, but it's dying down now.

I press my hand to my forehead and rub at it gently, in clockwise circles, and then sit down on an unoccupied space of the bed. I'm facing Cartman and Kenny. "Oh, god," I moan, the smell of sick filling my nostrils and making me want to retch myself.

I hear the sound of clicking. "Hey, this thing's empty," Kenny remarks. I open my eyes and lift my head to look at him, and see that he's finally retrieved his gun. "Hey, how many times did you guys use this thing? And on me, nonetheless…!" He gets a stupid, cocky grin on his face. "Hey Stan, that's the best 'welcome back' I've ever gotten."

Stan still looks like an awful, completely out of it mess, but he manages to shoot back, pure venom in his voice. "Yeah?" he practically snarls. I look over at him and see that in addition to all of the blood and sweat on his body, he's officially got tears running down his face, too. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," Kenny laughs, "I mean, you nearly almost had me taken out again!" He pauses. "Are you okay, though?"

Stan seems unable to make a retort, or an answer. He just lies on his bed, spread out, shuddering and near-choking on his words when he tries to get something out. And he's still crying. He shouldn't be. He has no reason to.

Cartman balls up his fists. "God damn, if that had happened again I'd be so pissed off. You're so lucky, Stan—"

"Both of you SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I shout. Fuck it if Stan's mom comes up here again. Fuck it. Stan's in no condition right now to be taking this, and even I'm feeling the words sting too harshly, too. I get up and punch Cartman right in the face. My right arm feels numb now from using it with such excessive force considering how it's been torn up, but I don't care as Cartman starts to make little sounds of pain. I turn my attention on Kenny.

Kenny raises his hands up. "Hey, you already got me bad enough," he snaps. "Calm down, Kyle. I still care about him."

"Calm down?" I spit back. "Care about him? You two are cracking jokes at Stan's expense right here, barely giving a fuck about his current state, and… god damnit, you two!" I bury my head in my hands. Cartman's just biting his lip, having gone back to being a sissy when it comes to me once again. Kenny's looking visibly agitated.

"What the hell, Kyle? It's not like you're the only one who does care about him," he mutters, crossing his arms indignantly against his chest. "Just because you two are 'best friends' doesn't mean that you're the only one allowed to care for him. He's my friend too, y'know."

I look back up. "Well, you sure as hell aren't showing it right now!" I snap.

"Dude! Look, I know I've had more near-death – and death – experiences than you guys, but that doesn't mean that I can suddenly stop just ignoring them! Especially after my last one." Cartman suddenly forgets about his pain. I shuffle my feet uneasily, and out of the corner of my eye, see Stan sit up. Kenny continues, "That one took a bit more out of me. I think it was the _way_ I was killed, _Kyle_," he spits back.

I gawk. I open my mouth to say something in return, but can't think of what exactly to say. Stan raises an eyebrow, obviously confused, while Cartman just glares at me. I stutter around a few sounds and words, trying to think of what to answer that with, but I can't. Finally, Stan breaks the silence.

"… Huh? What was so special about that…?" he asks, and I stare at my still-shuffling feet.

Kenny strides over to me and forces me to look up at him. I still tilt my gaze away, however. "Dude, I'm sorry. I… I had to know."

Kenny coolly lets his eyes look over me. "So of course, you come to me."

"Well, who else was I supposed to go to?" I snap back, going on the defensive. Honestly, Kenny is being completely ridiculous now. "Besides, I gave you my terms! You knew full well what the consequences would have been, and you accepted anyway!"

"You didn't tell me until _after_ I found out what I wanted to know!"

What? "No, I told you _before_! You knew the whole situation before you got what you wanted from me, and you still chose it, anyway!"

"Quit making shit up, Kyle!" Kenny fumes. I don't think that he came back all in the right mind this time. "As time has gone on and passed, my deaths have gotten fewer and fewer, only happening every now and again, and even then, it's been rare. You completely snuck me into it. And getting killed by one of my best friends, for chrissake! Am I that expendable to you? Were you able to forget the fact that I existed while I was gone? Huh?"

"No!" I shout back, mildly aware of how this is all dawning on Stan. I don't think I ever told him what I did. "I—"

"Was only thinking of myself. Right?"

I don't want to talk about this. I can't talk about this. "Kenny," I say softly, "I was so confused when we made that deal. I had to know. I'm so sorry." I still refuse to look at him. "I know you've helped me out before," I continue, taking a quick glance at Cartman, who hasn't even said anything yet, "and I thought that you were my solution again."

Cartman steps in, now, approaching our little group around Stan's bed. "That's your excuse for killing someone?" he snaps. "Yourself? Pure selfishness?"

"It's not like you've never only ever thought of only yourself before, Cartman!" Stan says, injecting himself back into the conversation, even though he still doesn't seem to be too sure of what's going on. He appears to be slightly more coherent now, but still really, really shaken up. He swallows a few times, but says nothing else.

Cartman blows that off. "This is different, Stan. Your best friend killed _my_ best friend—"

After hearing just how much Cartman really did think of Kenny a few hours ago, I'm not buying that crap, and I can't hold back on my thoughts. "Oh, shut up, Cartman! You may see him as a best friend but he sure as hell doesn't see you that way!"

Kenny raises an eyebrow. "Since when could you read my mind, Kyle?" He asks this in such a harsh tone that I'm a little taken back.

"I can't… but—"

"Then why are you assuming you completely know me?"

I stare at him, and then look at Cartman, who now appears smug. I look back and forth between the two, and then at Stan. "Oh, you've gotta be shitting me!" I cry out, throwing my hands above my head. "Cartman isn't a best friend! He isn't a friend at all! He doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself!"

Kenny rolls his eyes. "Look, we all know that you and Stan are close, Kyle, but being gay for each other is _not_ a requirement of being best friends."

I ball my hands into fists at this. "What did you just…" My voice trails off, but my hardened expression remains.

Stan doesn't look too happy with that remark either. He still looks a little frenzied, but calms himself down a little bit, only hiccupping a little during his question. "What the fuck exactly happened between you two?" he demands. I keep my mouth shut, clenching down on my teeth really hard, and keep my eyes narrowed. I refuse to look at Kenny. He fills in for me.

"Kyle felt like he had to kill me in order to 'find out' about something."

"If I liked to kill people," I mutter, interjecting, and still keeping my eyes low. I don't like it. For all I know I've caused at least three human deaths.

Kenny rolls his eyes again. "So he shot me to find out. Well? Do you, Kyle?"

Stan just looks at me. Cartman blinks. I don't answer. I don't know _how_ or _what_ to answer. Kenny's gaze on me turns intense. "So you killed me in vain? You guys don't fucking know what it's like having to go through all of that all the time. It's fucking awful. Probably serves as a cheap laugh now and again, I'm sure, but it's not so much as fun for me. It hurts a lot, each and every time. It's completely agonizing and the pain will completely blow your mind, or what's left of it, since you pretty much just fade out. But those final feelings just don't leave you, and it hurts so goddamn bad.

"And then there's the fear. That's just something you can never get over, ever, no matter how many times it's happened. Your heart starts going at such an incredible rate it feels like it's just going to completely explode. It's like, _that's_ what kills you. It's so fucking impossible to describe, even after going through it so many times. And after a while, it can just get so old… But the emotions associated with it never relent. Nobody should have to go through this so many times. Nobody. Once is _way_ more than enough."

Kenny sighs and looks up at Stan, who is staring right back at him. The former just seems to be really tired and frustrated, but I can't figure out what Stan's body language is displaying. He's slouched a little, but then again, he's hurt. Aside from that fact, he looks normal and calm enough. He's usually pretty open with his emotions, but then again, I haven't always been the best at reading them myself. His attention is completely focused on Kenny though, so Kenny continues.

"… And when it's somebody _close_ to you that's making you go through all of this, that just stings. It stings really, really badly. And when it's for no good reason, and nothing even comes from it… nothing comes out of it… Well, that just makes it even worse," he says, his eyes resting on me again. I have no idea what he's trying to do here, but if he's trying to make me feel guilty, it's not working. "I know we've all hurt each other in some way or another at least once before, every single one of us, especially after all of the years we've spent together, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as getting killed. It just… doesn't. I can't explain it any further."

I refuse to respond. This is complete bullshit. The amount of sheer melodrama that I'm hearing coming from his mouth is insane. I really don't know what Kenny is trying to accomplish here, but whatever it is, he really needs to change his objectives. I simply look up at him, and raise my eyebrow, and shrug my shoulders. I mutter something incoherent under my breath, but only Cartman notices. He mouths something back at me and I can't help but grin.

Our little exchange is completely ignored, though. Stan remains in his position, his upper body remaining in the air from the support he's getting by pressing his hand down on the top of his bed rest. His back slouches a little in a bit of an uncaring curve. I wonder how much pain he's in right now, but only physically. Because there shouldn't be anything emotionally wrong, just a minor breakdown he seems to have calmed down over…

"I'm sorry, Kenny," Stan says, softly. It's more like a murmur. A flat murmur. He breathes in deeply, and stretches out his legs. "I was just so freaked out, and… I can't believe that I did that. I can't… Fucking hell, dude, do you really have to say it like that? I'm already… Oh, god damn." He shuts his mouth and his eyes and breathes in deeply. He covers his face with his hand that isn't supporting his body and starts to shake violently, sobbing. "You've proven your point, dude," he gasps out, and shakes his head. I honestly can't believe that Stan's just fallen for this so easily, and that he actually feels really, really bad about it. I'd move over to comfort him but I can't find the desire to.

Kenny stares at Stan. "Wait, what? Dude, I didn't mean it that way. I'm not even—"

"Stan, he's referring to _me_," I snap, bitterly, glaring at Kenny. "Kenny, what the hell? Since when have you ever let something like this bug you so fucking much? You've _never_ made a big deal out of your dying. The only time I can recall you even getting pissy over it was when _I_ was on my near-death bed from kidney troubles."

"You can only end up taking shit for so long, Kyle!" Kenny shoots back. "It's going to build up and get to you eventually, and when it's that bad and happens that frequently—of course you wouldn't understand it!"

I roll my eyes and stand up to him, digging my finger into his chest. "Well, yeah! Because I haven't fucking died! And it's sure unfortunate that you have to go through that but you said it yourself. It barely even happens anymore. Sow hat's there to worry about? There are other problems being held by other people, you know."

"Right. Oh no, I might be a psychopath!"

"I'm _not_ a fucking psychopath!"

"Then why are you acting so much like it? Why did you do what you did?" Cartman jumps into the argument, taking Kenny's side, of course.

I turn to face him. I don't even know what to do anymore. "It's called being uncertain!" I cry out, knowing I won't be able to explain this properly. None of it makes any sense. It doesn't even make any sense to me. It's impossible to explain, and it's not normal, and it really does feel like absolutely nobody else in the world would understand how or why or anything. It's hopeless to try to get the point across. You can't explain something to somebody else and expect them to get it if you don't even get it yourself. That's just expecting way, way too much. "You wouldn't be able to understand!"

Kenny gives me a look. "Try me," he says.

"I'd rather not," I growl back, wondering what the hell just happened to all of my friendships. Everyone's so high-strung right now. Maybe we all just need a chance to cool off.

"So you're saying that you can't justify yourself?" Cartman interrupts.

Once again, Cartman has left me stunned by his words. It's like he has absolutely no clue what he's saying in the slightest. He doesn't realize how easily it can be turned on him… "And what were you just doing before Kenny showed up, Cartman? Trying to kill me because I pissed you off so much? Trying to kill Stan in an attempt at getting even with me? And just so that you could make yourself 'feel better' – _hardly_ a justifiable excuse! You completely forgot that you'd be hurting Kenny's friends, too!" I know that he isn't going to get what I'm saying, though. Of course he's not going to. That would be expecting too much from him.

Kenny looks over at Cartman, who only shrugs. "You know Jews, Kenny," he says. "They make shit up to go in their favour all the time." Kenny just stares at him, then turns back to me.

"Hell, everybody has their faults, Kyle. You can't let that get in the way of everything."

"You were doing _just that_ to me!" I fire right back, seething. "You were just letting a minor detail obscure your views and making you despise me!"

"It's not like that—"

This can't be real. Nobody is who they really are. We've been getting away with more than what should actually be possible. Nobody's been stopping us from doing anything. I don't even know what's up with me, but Kenny is acting stupider than normal and Stan's been broken down too easily—

I look back at him, just realizing now that he hasn't said anything in a while. His shaking has stopped, but he still has his hand clasped over his eyes, which still are, as far as I can tell, squeezed tightly shut. He's stopped bleeding and his breathing has slowed down. I don't know what's up. I can't tell.

I don't have the chance to find out, though, when Cartman suddenly pushes me back. This is when I realize that he's dropped the knife. Everybody seems to have forgotten about that, switching over to quieter verbal insults than actual physical fighting. The mental tearing-down has only affected Stan, but something hints at me that what's getting to him is something bigger than what's going on in here. And I can't confront him about it since there are other things to deal with in here first… And I can't see the knife anywhere, either. But it doesn't look like anybody has it anymore. I scan my eyes all over the floor and don't see it…

A slap to my face jerks my head sideways. I rub at my cheek, glaring at Cartman, as he snarls at me, "Damnit, were you even _listening_ to me?"

"No, I wasn't," I simply respond, huffing. "I'm so fucking sick of this. We aren't getting anywhere. The only person I really have to say anything to here is Kenny… so look. Dude, Ken, I'm sorry. I can't explain what was going on if I don't even understand it myself. Talk to me when your problems aren't as clear as simply dying a lot, okay?"

Kenny stiffens. "So what, you've got it worse now?"

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't. But no matter which way it is, you need to cool off before you end up confronting me again. Then maybe we can get this solved in a more reasonable fashion. I don't know how this got so heated to begin with, but jesus, take a breather and wait a bit until you can—"

"Shit," Stan mutters, quietly. The three of us turn our attentions to him, having not heard anything from him in a while – and it wouldn't surprise me if Cartman and Kenny had actually forgotten that he was there. He's got a grin on his face now, but other than that, he still looks stressed out. "Aw, fuck," he says, and removes his hand from his eyes so that he can look at the rest of us.

"'Calm down,' Kyle?" he questions, looking right at me. "You do know that that's not going to happen, right? I mean, I guess it could. But it's probably not going to."

Kenny, Cartman, and I all exchange looks a little baffled. "What do you mean?" I ask Stan, but he doesn't answer. He just drops back down on his bed and rolls on his side, facing away from the rest of us. He's lying on his really, really hurt left side. I wouldn't think that he'd want to do that.

"Stan, are you okay?" I ask him, taking a step towards him, but that's it. Instead, he completely ignores my question all together, and goes back to a previous topic.

"I know that Kenny was referring to Kyle, about the whole killing thing," he says. "But that doesn't change the fact that I almost did it myself. However accidental… Ah… Ow." He rolls over and onto his back, and grips his left shoulder, and changes the subject once again. "Cartman, are you going to leave me alone now?"

Cartman stands there, blankly. "Uh…"

"Please do," Stan says, his gaze fixated on the ceiling. And he doesn't move or say anything else. Nobody does. Nobody's too sure of what to do now. After minutes on end, of just us standing there, and him lying there, Stan realizes this, and speaks up once more. "Maybe you guys should just go now.

"And it's way worse when you have more than yourself to worry about."


	28. Hesitation

_I've written quite a bit more than normal this week. I have a friend coming from out-of-town who's gonna be spending next Friday night with me, which knocks some writing time away, which means that if I want to keep up these weekly updates (which I do – it's almost done!), I needed to write a bit more this weekend._

_I'm feeling a bit better than last week, and I didn't have nearly as many problems getting this chapter written up. Thanks for all of your support!_

* * *

So now I'm here, standing in front of the door to my house. I know that I should go in. I know that my family has to be really, really worried right now, and that I've been a bad kid by neglecting this and focusing on my own personal woes right now. The ones that I deem more important than the people who support me, gave me life, and love me unconditionally. I'm a horrible son for ignoring them, but one thing leads to another, and sometimes you just can't stop yourself in the middle of something.

And it's worse when no good comes from it. When what you did to prolong the inevitable didn't have any positives. Sure, it may not have had any negatives, either, but I still can't get rid of this bad feeling. That I honestly don't deserve this. Yeah, they're not necessarily the greatest people. An apathetic father, an over-reactive, over-sensitive mother, and a nosy brother. But they're still all good people, and it's not right of me to have kept them waiting days without knowing anything…

Though then again, maybe they do know something. After all, they would have gone looking for me, right? None of this makes any sense. There's no way I could have just suddenly disappeared and not have been found for days because Cartman was keeping me locked up somewhere. Especially for over a day. How does that work…?

But the thought that they should have some idea as to where I was isn't comforting in the slightest, either. It's not doing anything for me. Because I don't know that for sure, no matter how logical it is. And they still don't know for sure. They're worried, and the fact that the last time they saw me was after I had been brought home from the hospital from cutting myself all over… That can't lead to a good conclusion. It can't.

And I'm even worse about this, because I have yet to actually alert them that there's a presence – mine – right outside of their house. My fist is still raised in the air, ready to knock, but I haven't been able to actually complete the action. So I've been standing here stupidly, thinking about all this, and not doing a thing about it.

I should accept the fact that there isn't anything I really can do about it. Sure, it's always great to feel relieved afterwards, but you can't take back the anxiety that you caused. That'll always stick there, and it's killer knowing that you caused suffering on the ones you should care about the most. It's not right…

I wonder if I really should even enter now. I seriously don't deserve any of this. I'm being too hard on myself, I know, but after all this crap… And they still don't know what I've been doing. I've been locking them completely out of my life. I know it's wrong and stupid to jump to this conclusion, but I have to wonder if they'd even bother caring about me anymore.

Maybe I should put a stop to that. One less mouth to feed, one less state of consciousness to care for, and one less body to worry about. They could have more money, less strain on their lives, and it'd be better for everyone, except for me.

And I'm willing to accept that. I've caused nothing but grief lately to those I love. Sure, if I "went away", there would be hurt at first. But it would soon enough dull, and die down, and people would start to slowly forget. And they'd be happier. You grow accustomed as time passes. And what better time is there, after not interacting them with my family for so long?

The question remains about where I would go. Maybe I'd leave this town, maybe I'd end up dying (though by whose hand, I can't say. I'd probably succumb to the environment, if anything).

I uncurl my fingers from knocking position and further raise my hand up, only to push my hair up and cover my eyes with it. I feel a headache coming on, which isn't helping me much with this awful feeling I have in my gut. About being so disloyal, so…

I don't know. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know…

* * *

Stan's words stung. I'm still not too sure why they did, but they did. His message was lost on me, and when I had judged Cartman and Kenny's looks, it looked like it had been lost on them, too. But nobody questioned him.

The state he was in… I wanted to chalk up his message to some kind of stupid hallucination. I wanted to believe that he wasn't in his right mind. And to an extent, I did just that. But I knew that I shouldn't. And so, part of me didn't. Because for one thing, it really shouldn't be up to me to decide who's thinking straight (funny phrase, there), and who's not.

And the other thing? I felt like, and still do feel, that I've been really underestimating Stan lately. He put up such a great fight. I had been worried that he'd be completely taken by surprise and unable to do anything, but when I had arrived, it was like he had the whole situation under control. And my arrival had been the catalyst, and it was my fault that he had gotten hurt so badly…

Not only have I been underestimating him. I've been callous to him, too. Every time I've gone to him, or approached him in any way, it's always been about me. For all I know, he could be incredibly distressed… and what he had just said seems to fit it.

It was weird, though. Like he was totally distressed about it, but he had managed to calm himself down. I wanted to ask him about it, but I stopped myself.

He had also asked us to leave. Kenny was the first to, slowly dragging Cartman out with him. I don't know where they went. But I had found myself frozen in place, not sure what to do, or say, or even how to get out with his mom spotting me. I eventually managed somehow, but that's not what's important.

Although one has to wonder if any of this actually is important to begin with…

But I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to leave my best friend, my boyfriend, in that kind of state. I didn't know what he was thinking, and I wasn't sure what to make of it myself. All I knew then was that I wanted him to feel better. And I thought that I might be able to help him out, so that we could both be happy, at least for a little bit.

I saw each of his movements with such stunning clarity. His fingers twitched, his toes curled up, his blood-stained hand grasped his blood-stained sheets. His other hand came to rest over on his stomach. He raised one of his legs and crossed it over the other one. And he blinked, and his eyes looked over, and straight at me.

"Kyle, I said that you should probably leave now," he had said.

And I had still done nothing. I continued to stand there like a dumbass, but before he could tell me again, I found my brain and was able to formulate my thoughts… sort of. "But Stan, I thought that—"

And he had interrupted my accomplishment. "I know that I said it referring to the three of you, and I did mean that you should also leave in that statement," he had said. His voice had been so flat and static. I wasn't used to it. I'm still not. I can still hear the exact words voiced by the exact tone in my head, and it just doesn't fit.

"Yeah, but Stan, I thought—"

I stopped myself there that time. I just continued to stand there and watch him. His shoulders stiffened, and his leg kicked up suddenly before coming back down to rest against his other leg. The hand grasping the sheets tightened their hold, and his facial features had hardened slightly. But the general blankness was still there. I decided to continue talking, despite being well-informed that he was in no mood for this.

"… How much pain are you in right now?" I had asked, switching the subject over, just a little.

He gazed up at the ceiling. "A lot," he replied, starting to practically claw at his stomach. I stepped in to pull his arm away to stop him from doing that, but he had snarled, facial features distorting and turning ugly, saying, "Don't fucking touch me."

So I backed off. "You're not okay, are you."

"You were always the smart one."

I had ignored that biting comment. What he had said in relation to me wasn't important. What was important was that I felt that I could make him feel better; that I was that special to him. So I pressured further, knowing that to fix things, you had to get to the root of the problem. "Care to elaborate?"

"Not really," he said, sarcasm rapidly decreasing from his voice as he went back to flatness. "Just leave, Kyle."

"Dude, I don't wanna do that," I replied. "Not until you feel better. I know that we really started ignoring you there in that scuffle, and I probably know how you feel right now. It'd be better to just get it all out instead of holding it in, to let it explode—"

And what he had said next threw me off, because I wasn't sure if I had ever said, or thought, anything like that. I had always been uncertain about what I was doing, having short little bursts of pride before snapping right back to reality and feeling awful for it. And I don't know if I had ever said anything like that out loud, much less to anyone else.

"Well, what if I _want_ to explode?" he snapped. And he was serious about it, too. It wasn't one of those 'in the moment' things. He had been silent for so long, he had surely had time to think about this. He was totally serious. He knew what he wanted.

"… I've been ignoring you lately, huh?" I ask after a moment of silence.

"You and everybody else," he responded. "And you've been ignoring everybody yourself, Ky. I tried doing what you do and got lost in my own thoughts. I'm not sure why you like doing that all the time. I never saw any good in it myself."

I'd have grinned stupidly at that if I could have felt compelled to. "Yeah, I wouldn't necessarily recommend it, myself," I said. "It does a good job of fucking you up. Don't do that, Stan. Just let it all out, slowly and calmly."

"I told you that I didn't want to do that," he had said. And that was all he had said. He didn't say anything else after that. He just stopped talking at that point. He didn't look at me, either. Sure, his eyes were open, but if they were looking at anything, it'd have been his ceiling. I don't think it was even that, though. His eyes were just unfocused and staring off into space. Like he would be deep in thought, if he had wanted to be.

I had shuffled my feet nervously. I couldn't think of anything else to say, and he wasn't about to start talking to me again. But I still didn't want to leave him yet. He was still so badly hurt, and I wasn't too sure what he was talking about. And I'm really still not. And I'm just hoping, desperately hoping, that he'll feel much better after he gets some sleep, and he won't think about this anymore.

Though I was right when I said that I had been ignoring him. This couldn't be something that had just suddenly popped up due to his general inactivity while Kenny, Cartman, and I had been arguing. It's more like this had been festering. And for how long, I don't know, but I was so pissed that I couldn't pick up on it any sooner. And I still am.

So that's why I felt like it was part of my responsibility to try to get him to feel better. I thought that I'd be important enough to him that that alone would make him feel better. That my mere presence would be able to fix things. But I should stop thinking things like that, right now, because evidently, they aren't true. I don't even seem to matter to the person I care most about. I was overrating myself.

And guess what? I still am.

* * *

I shake my head and massage at my temples, and then raise my other hand to go back to knocking on my front door. I still don't think that I should. After all, if I can't even mean all that much to Stan, why would I mean anything to my family? If I can't help out my best friend, how can I make my family feel any better? I expect to get a bunch of love thrown on me first, and soon enough, that will change to anger. And then the screaming will start, the fighting will start, and I'll end up ditching them again.

It's a fucking cycle. But where else do I have to go?

I don't think it's past midnight yet. I don't know what the time is anymore, I just know, for sure, that the sky is black and there are numerous glowing white celestial objects decorating it. The light from some of those things probably originated from before I was born, and it's only just getting to us, now.

I wonder how long it'll be before I get the message, whatever message it is I'm supposed to get. Stan's. Or my own. Because I'm still confused.

And thinking on what so much of this started on, it's fucking ridiculous… I wish that I could turn back the clock, stop the stress from overrunning me, fucking me up, and landing me in the hospital in the first place. About the time I started dying.

I draw the hand that was covering my eyes away from my face, and then slam it right back, full-force, slapping myself. I need to learn to stop thinking. What did I just tell Stan, before I left and came back here? That I wouldn't recommend doing shit like that? And yet here I am, doing it once again.

I'm not going to know what's going to happen until I take the first step. And I've been standing out here for several minutes, just ready to knock, and not doing it. And I'm back to square one, here now, standing right in front of the front door to my house, wondering what's going to happen and reflecting on what just did.

So I knock. I force my fist into the door in a calm, yet rapid, succession, and curse myself the second after the first knock rings out. "Fucking hell, Kyle, you fucking dipshit," I mutter. "You shouldn't have done that, you shouldn't have fucking done that, you dumbass. You goddamned son of a—"

I hear voices from inside. "Ike, go back to bed!" comes my mother's all-too recognizable voice. And I feel like slamming my head against something.

"But what if it's Kyle? It might be Kyle!" my adopted little brother's voice rings out, and my muttering suddenly stops. I'm left standing there, mouth hanging open in confusion. So they never did…? They've just been expecting me to come back…? Or have they given up hope and not told Ike…? What the fuck did they do?

"Ike…" My mom sighs. And then I see the doorknob on my end turning. I want to grab out at it and turn it the other way, as if that would stop anything. This is a mistake. This is all a big mistake. It's honestly not like there was anything else I could have done instead, but this is still going to be such a mistake. I know it, I know it, I know it… No good can come from this. No neutrality can. Only bad. This is going to fuck things up further, I'm sure of it.

The doorknob turns, and then moves away from me as the door opens. For a split second, I had the chance to grab it and pull it back towards me, shutting it and keeping any of my family from seeing me. And of course, I didn't take advantage of it.

And I raise my gaze from our steps and my feet to see my mom's face, and I feel like punching myself when I see it. Her mouth hanging open and turning to a small smile as tears spring from her eyes, she looks so thankful. And then Ike peaks out from behind her, and lets out a joyous cry of, "Kyle!" And I can see my dad sitting on the couch, reading the newspaper, his eyes looking kinda bloodshot… And then he turns his head to the door, sees me, and smiles.

And I feel like an even more worthless person than I did before. My family loves me and I didn't…

I couldn't…

"Oh, Kyle!" my mom cries out, and immediately hugs me. I wince as she hits some of my injured areas, and wish that lightning would strike me down on the spot. Because I'm a horrible person, and I was an already-horrible son and brother, but now, I'm even worse. To think that I wanted to deny these people the right to see me again, when they so clearly cared about me. And to think that I still want to deny them that right.

So I stiffen when her arms wrap around me. She doesn't seem to notice, though, just resting her chin on my shoulder and shaking slightly, in relief I can only assume. I imagine Stan and I in this position instead, and suddenly feel even more uncomfortable.

My mom finally pulls away, allowing me to step inside. Ike hops about around my feet, so ecstatic to see me again, while my dad has folded up the newspaper he was reading and set it down next to him.

I'm the center of attention and I want to bolt now more than ever, which is quite a statement. I don't know how to feel. My emotions are seriously conflicting with each other… The fact that I'm seriously just not worth it, and yet, other people seem to think I am. And I want them to be rid of me, so that they can be happy, but seeing all of the excitement on their faces now hinders my ability for that to happen.

I want a reset button. I want to be able to back away and out of all of this and not screw things up, and do them right this time…

All I'm doing right now is standing here. Standing here, blankly, and so confused about what to do. And my family doesn't even seem to notice that. They're all so happy.

Too happy.

They don't know what I've been done, what kind of shit I've been up to, and the real complexities behind it all… And I doubt that even I know. I bet I'm overdoing this. I can't be this special. I'm continuing to overrate myself.

I'm both overrating and underrating myself at the same time. How the hell does that work, exactly?

"Kyle, I'm so glad to see you again!" my mother cries out, wiping away her tears. "I've been so worried! I was so scared…"

I can't respond. I just don't know what to say. I try to offer a weak smile in return, but even that takes too much effort. So I just shrug and accept what she says.

"Where were you, Kyle?" Ike asks, calming himself down and peering up at me. "What were you doing? You're okay now, right?"

I spread my arms out at this, unsure of how to answer, really. I take a wider stance and spread my limbs out, honestly unable to do anything else. And that's when my family wakes up. My mom's looks of happiness slowly morphs into one of shock and mild horror. My dad averts his eyes, opting to take the newspaper back instead, until he can think of something to say, I guess. Ike simply pokes at one of the glass shards, still embedded in my right arm.

And I shrug.

"Oh my god! What happened to you, Kyle?" my mom demands. Her hand reaches out to me, but pauses in midair, as she's unsure if she should touch me or not. I can understand this. Though not nearly as bad as Stan at the moment, I do have several tears in my clothes and blood stains on my skin, as well as cuts and glass. I look over at one of the room's corners and shrug again.

"Kyle?" my dad speaks up. "Is everything alright?"

I remain silent and continue to simply stare at the corner.

"Kyle, answer me!" my mom snaps out, unable to control her temper at the moment. This jerks me out of my reverie, and I look up at her, expecting some more ranting. She goes on, either unable to hear or just simply ignoring my dad's protests. "I've been worried sick these past few days! Bubbie, I love you, and I care about you, no matter what. I'm asking you this for your own safety, so I can help protect you. I don't want anything else to happen to you, so you have to answer me right this minute, mister!" she cries out, mixing statements of affection and anger together.

I kick at the carpet rather awkwardly, and simply say, "No."

"Don't disobey me, Kyle!" she shouts. I roll my eyes, knowing that this was going to end up happening. I called it. I definitely called it.

"Why? Why not? You won't be able to 'help me', 'protect me', or anything like that? It's not going to help you, telling you, and it's only going to hurt me even more!" I inform her, feeling my own temper rise up. I slap my forehead. "I get it that there are things you want to save me from, but that's not always going to be possible!"

Ike has shirked away, running to the top of the stairs and sitting there to watch the unfolding argument. That's the last I see of him. "Of course it's always going to be possible!" Mom shoots back, pleading, and directing my focus back on her. Maybe she really believes that, or maybe she's just saying that, but either way, she wants me to believe her. And I just can't, because she wouldn't love me if she knew some of the shit I've been up to, real or not.

So I snap right back, "No, it's not!" I head back over towards the door. "I can't trust you! I… I just can't! You don't know what you're saying, you don't know the situations, so please don't act like you do!"

"Listen, young man, if you just _told me_ what it was then I could understand and help you work things out! I'll be supportive no matter what, Kyle. I'm your mother. Trust me!"

She's ordering me to trust her. She's actually _ordering_ me to _trust_ her. You can't do that. It doesn't work. You can't… I just told her that _I_ couldn't…

"It doesn't work that way, Mom!" I yell at her, reaching for the doorknob. "Coming back was a mistake! I'm sorry you all had to worry so much about a horrible human being like me!" I really, truly, am sorry. That's why I'm leaving. To give them peace of mind. "Things will be better off here without me. I'll figure out something. Don't worry about me anymore! Ever again! I don't deserve people caring about me!"

"That's ridiculous, Kyle!" my dad says, getting up from his seat. "You're a great kid, and of course we're going to worry about you. Don't say things like that." His tone is level and fairly stern, but it's so easy to blow off what he's saying, because he doesn't even know what he's saying.

My mom takes a few steps towards me. "Exactly! Kyle, I don't want to hear you saying things like that about yourself. It's not healthy!"

I've had enough of this. I'm getting out of here. I can't stand to listen to these blatant lies. They sting because there was once a time when everything that they're saying was true, but that time is far from now. And it hurts even more to know that. So, "Healthy?" I laugh, shaking my head. "Healthy? What the hell do you know about being healthy? Look at me! Since when have I been completely healthy? And that was just physical shit!"

"Kyle don't use that kind of language—"

"I'll use whatever fucking language I fucking want to!" Wow, that came out pretty stupid. "Does language honestly matter, Mom? Does it? It's just a bunch of sounds we put together. A good deal of the time, those sounds are complete and utter bullshit, like what you've just been telling me! I'm **_not_** a great person! I'm a horrible, horrible human being.

"But I truly mean this when I say it: I'm sorry for ever coming into your lives, and I'm sorry that you've had to worry about me, especially the past few days. But please, stop saying the things that you're saying. They aren't true. And it hurts to hear you say that because they once were." I turn the doorknob and open up the door a little, but my mom speaks up again, and I stop to hear what she had to say.

"Then when did this all change, Kyle? What stopped you from being such a great boy?"

"… I don't know," I answer, honestly. "It's too messed up, it's too confusing, and I don't know. I've felt really, really unstable the past few days…" My voice trails off uncertainly, but then I find my stance once again. "But I'm not a good kid. Not anymore. And you would stop loving me once you found out why."

Mom grabs hold of my arm, stopping me from leaving. "Now you're the one assuming things, Kyle. You're the one not knowing the whole story, and how much I care about you, and how much it hurts _me _to hear you say those things about yourself."

I pull away from her, nursing the spot where she had first touched me, as it now hurts. "Yeah, except you're completely wrong. I'm sorry," I say, starting to head back outside. I have a bit of an idea as to where I can go now, and hopefully smooth things over along the way.

"Kyle, stop that this instant!" my mom snaps again, and pulls me back, much more harshly, and with way more force. I lose my footing and stumble slightly, nearly crashing right into her. I glare up at her, but she ignores me, continuing her rant. "You need to understand that you're still just a child, and you have to listen to us, your parents!" Okay, so she can't decide if she should be pissed or understanding again. Great. "And I doubt that whatever you did was that bad. You're such a wonderful son, regardless of what you say, and you need to stop—"

"Wonderful? I purposely ignored you all and held out on coming back here! I left you all to worry and didn't give proper regards to your feelings! And that's what makes me wonderful? When was the last time I showed compassion to any of you, huh? I didn't even want to come back here! I just felt like I had an obligation, and I spent so long out on the front porch just trying to decide if I should even bother to fucking _knock_!" I pull back away once again, this little tug-of-war thing starting to piss me off. "I… I'm sorry; I don't deserve such a great family and people to actually care about me. I'll try to leave you alone now."

"Kyle, you keep saying that, and I keep telling you! I don't like it when you say that! Please, just—"

I don't know if I'm planning on ever coming back or not, but the best way to get out of here would be to use shock to my advantage. Put my parents into a bit of a stupor that lasts just long enough for me to go and try something else first. It's hilarious, though, that I've really just been wanting to resolve this, with everyone affected, and now, I'm ending nearly all hope for that.

"You wouldn't say these things to a murderer, would you? Your 'wonderful' son has killed at least one person, possibly three." Kenny definitely counts. "Do you still feel the same way?"

I finally get the chance to leave, slamming the door in their faces, and not witnessing their reactions at all.


	29. Betrayal

_Alright, two more chapters to go, and then this thing will actually be **done**. It's so amazing because this thing is so long already, and I've been working on it for so long, and I've never completed a multi-chapter anything before… so… wow._

_Though I'm expecting the last two chapters to be longer than normal. Fortunately, I'm on spring break now, so I should be able to get the next chapter up within a week, though I definitely can't say the same for the very last one. Either way, it's almost done. Big thanks to you guys who are still reviewing – it's 'cause of you I've been able to get through this and get to the parts I actually really did want to write, rather than just giving up. Enjoy!_

* * *

Even though Stan never said anything else after that last statement, I still had been unable to leave. It just didn't sit right with me. I didn't want to do anything like that when he was acting and feeling that way. I figured, hey, maybe just my presence will help a _little_? It could be kinda comforting. And at the least, it would have stopped him from actually doing anything, right?

Though looking back on him, I highly doubt he even had the strength to do anything. He was just lying there, and doing nothing else. He had already lost plenty of blood, and I was still desperately clinging onto the hope that he just had absolutely no idea what he was saying, because his mind would have been feeling faint and weak. No way you can keep a straight head when you've suffered that much. I know that I couldn't.

I thought that yeah, so maybe this is just Stan's way of coping with frustration and pain right now. That yeah, Stan definitely wasn't all there, and yeah, he couldn't possibly be. But he was still awake. And I'm sure that he knew that I was still there. He just chose not to acknowledge my existence.

Eventually Stan actually got up, and stretched his limbs out a little. It must have hurt, but maybe they were falling asleep, or something. Maybe he just felt the need to move again. Either way, he did it, and stared out at his window for a bit. I had never really noticed before, but the spot where I first did cut myself was easily seen right from this room. Sure, it was a rather large distance away, but the view was still pretty good.

That's probably how Stan knew to call an ambulance, or something, then. I'm sure it was him. When I first noticed that, I wanted to step forward and just hug him, and I nearly did. But then he turned back around, and got back into his bed, pulling the blankets over his body and turning his back to me.

I ended up taking a seat on the floor. I couldn't see out the window anymore, because the bed was blocking it. But my legs were still starting to hurt, and I just didn't want to leave. Though I did know that most of it was because I still wanted to help Stan, part of it was probably anxiousness about seeing my family again. That, I hadn't really been looking forward to… which is why it had taken me so long to actually enter the house. And as predicted, things did not go very well.

So I had just sat on the floor, wishing that I wouldn't have to go back for whatever reasons, and staring at the side of the bed. Nothing came from it. It was another state of neutrality.

A few times I'd open my mouth to try to say something, but I'd just end up closing it again. Stan wouldn't have responded to me, anyway. He made it quite clear earlier. Something was up with him, and he was being pretty moody. He had refused to talk to me clearly before, so why would he start up now? Mindless chatter wouldn't have done anything, and it would have been one-sided, anyway.

I had been considering just spending the night, like we had done several times in the past. But I knew that that wouldn't have worked out. What if his parents had come up there? And what would Stan have thought of me doing that? He'd probably have been really, really pissed. I knew that I had to leave eventually; I just really, really did not want to go.

So something was obviously up. And I wondered just what it was that got Stan started. And when did it happen? I mean, well… He knows what happened with me. He knows when it started. There isn't really any mystery behind that. I thought that we were close enough to share everything – _everything_. It's not necessarily my fault that I wasn't able to catch on any earlier. Stan should have known that – with all of the stuff going on with me, of _course_ I'd be focused a bit more on myself!

I wanted to tell him this, I wanted to tell him that I loved him; I wanted to tell him that no matter what, I'd still always be there for him and support him. … Just like the things that my parents told me that I refused to believe.

And I wanted to tell him that I really meant it, too. I just wanted to comfort him. It didn't seem like much of an 'alone time' situation to me.

I did feel a little betrayed. I came close to telling him this and flat-out snapping at him, but I didn't. It didn't seem appropriate for the situation. I have no idea how long I spent, just sitting on his floor and staring at the unmoving, unresponsive, cold side of his bed, but eventually I got up. I took one last look out that window, and then headed for the room's exit. And then I turned around once more, and took one last look at his back. As I did, he pulled the blankets over his head.

I made a barely audible sigh, and that's when I finally left him, having done nothing more than berate him for not trusting me and _myself_ for being such a hypocrite.

* * *

Hoping to smooth other issues over, I had crossed the tracks and went over to the poor side of the town, otherwise known as Kenny's house. I assumed that he'd be home by now, considering how much time I had wasted both just sitting in Stan's room and by arguing with my family. And sure enough, I was right, and he was in his room.

I knock on his window, and he looks up. Sighing, he puts away a magazine, gets up from his bed, and comes over to unlatch the window. "What is it?" he asks, staring me in the face. "Come to kill me again?"

"Kenny, please, just let it go," I groan. "Let's not hate each other for this. Alright? It was a horrible mistake, and I shouldn't have done that, I know. There are worse things to be frustrated about."

Kenny steps back from the window, allowing me in. I take advantage of this and climb through. "How's your family?" I ask, trying to make peace and casual conversation.

He looks over to his door. "They're fine. They didn't really even notice that I was gone, or came back," he says, shrugging. An awkward silence ensues. Kenny stares at me and I look away from him. Nothing is said for a while, and aside from breathing, no actions are really even performed.

Kenny finally breaks the silence. "Why did you come over here, Kyle?"

I answer his question with another question. "Why are you so pissed at me, Kenny?" He opens his mouth to say something back, but I know it isn't going to be an answer to my question, so I interrupt him. "I want to smooth things over. Answer my question and we can."

"I'm just… not ready, yet," he says, shrugging. "Kyle, I just really need some time to think to myself a little, get back and accustomed again."

"You were only gone for a few days! Why can't you get over—"

"I'm not pissed off over that!" Kenny shouts, taking a step towards me. "That's not what I need to think about! What you did to me - it's nothing new!"

I stare him down. "Then why the hell did you keep whining about it back at Stan's house?"

"It stopped you guys from fighting!" he cries back out. I'm not sure if there are tears starting to form in his eyes… I can't tell. He falls backwards and onto his bed to take a seat, pulling his orange hood up and hiding under it at the same time. "It got all of the attention on me, for once! I'm gone for a few days, come back, and there you all are, about to murder each other! How am I supposed to feel about that? I'm supposed to be okay with that? I walk in there, and see you guys for the first time after that horrible day, not having much of a clue what's going on, but hoping things got settled by themselves. And then I come in there, and see you guys all bloodied, and Stan near death! How am I supposed to react to that?"

I barely even hear his last sentence. "Wait… near death?"

"Fucking duh, Kyle!" he yells, standing up and slapping me across the face. "Did you not see him? He was so bad off… I was going to tell his mom when Cartman and I left about him, but I couldn't find her." He sighs and falls back over on the bed. "Dude, it's no wonder Stan wasn't acting like himself if what you guys did to him—"

"Hey, _I_ didn't do anything to him!" I retaliate, frustrated that Kenny would even accuse me of hurting Stan. "It was all Cartman! All _your_ 'best friend'! He's the one that got _both_ of us in this mess! Do you have any idea what the hell he's been doing to me while you've been gone, huh?"

Kenny sizes me up. "Right. And how much of that did you do to yourself?"

I ignore him. I don't want to be having this discussion right now. I did before, but… I had no idea that Stan would be near-death. There's no way… I mean, sure, he did get messed up quite a bit, but come on. Near death? I've gotten messed up a lot, too, more than should be a reasonable amount. I should be past my limit and dead myself by now. And yet, Stan, who didn't lose nearly as much blood as I have over all this time… he's near death? What the hell does that mean?

And how the hell could I have let that happen? I don't get it. He was trying to defend himself _and_ me at the same time. Did he suddenly turn so cold on me because I let that much happen to him? I mean, I didn't hurt him myself… But I still let him get badly hurt. I could have done more, I'm sure.

I shouldn't be feeling bad about this. It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's definitely not my fault…

"Kyle!" Kenny snaps out at me, interrupting my panicking thoughts. Just now I realize that I have my hands pressed up against my ears.

But his sudden yell at me snapped me right out of it, and I remove my hands out from underneath the earflaps of my hat. "W-what…?" I ask, feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach. And I feel dizzy now, too. Oh, god, I need to sit down.

"Well? How much did _you_ hurt _yourself_?"

"… I don't know how much. But some of it was definitely Cartman. He's fucking insane, dude…"

Kenny raises an eyebrow. "And you're not…? Look, dude, stop trying to turn me against Cartman. I know he's not a great person. Trust me, I know, and I used to hate him a lot, too. But he really isn't that bad, and I'm starting to get pissed off that all you can do in regard to him is talk a bunch of bullshit about him and try to turn me away from him." He glares at me. "You wouldn't like that if I tried to tell you that Stan was a horrible person, would you? So why do you keep doing it to me?"

I gawk at Kenny, completely baffled. I flail my arms about, trying to express a point. "Kenny! He… you saw us all in that room! He was facing off from both of us! He… He was so pissed at me for trying to kill him to the extent that he tried to kill me, _and_ Stan! You saw that with your own eyes! You can't dispute that!" He has to be listening to me. He _has_ to be. If Kenny can't trust me on this, then our friendship might be completely over. I know it's not right to try to stop him from making his own friendships, but he at least has the right to know what's up with his own friends. "He thought that by killing me, he'd be avenging you. And that by killing Stan, he'd still be avenging you, because then I'd be without a best friend. Dude, Kenny, you… you've gotta believe me on this. I swear I'm telling the truth."

I give him a good, hard look. "It does sound like something Cartman would do, doesn't it? Is that who you want for your best friend? Somebody who threatens your other friends' lives?" I continue to plead, starting to approach desperation.

Kenny pauses in his thinking, and goes blank for a few moments. He raises his hand, and his index finger, as if bringing up a point, and opens his mouth, but closes it and sets his hand back down pretty quickly after first initiating the action. He tries again, and gives up again. On the third time, he speaks slowly, and clearly. "… No way."

I roll my eyes. "Yes way, Kenny. I'm not making this up. It all fits because it actually happened. Stan and I were standing side-by-side and defending each other throughout that fight…" Well, Stan defending me more than I defended him. I feel disgustingly awful for that. "… While Cartman was attacking the two of us. Kenny, please."

"Did he… did he say he was actually doing it for me?" Kenny asks, still completely blank, it seems.

"Yes. And I tried to tell him that that was crap, but he wouldn't listen. I think he was just using you as an excuse to hurt us, for some reason."

We have an even longer period of silence. Kenny must be processing this all through his head. I don't know why, though – it shouldn't be coming as such a shock. I don't know the extent of their relationship, but surely, Kenny's going to have some major conflicting feelings about this. I'm being as sincere here as I possibly can, and I hope that he sees that, and doesn't just accuse me of making things up. I've given my evidence and I'm telling the truth. I'm telling the truth. That should be believed, right? The truth is what actually happened. That's can't be disputed. That means that he has to believe me.

After too long of a period of silence for my comfort, and my will to just get this resolved and fixed up now, I speak up again before Kenny even looks like he will. "Trust me, dude, and I'm being totally sincere when I say this: Cartman isn't worth it. He just isn't."

I'm met with a completely confused, torn-up stare. "I thought this would never happen," he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear him. "I never thought… I thought that I'd be able to keep him in-line, maybe even change him a bit for the better, and make him a little more bearable to others." Keep him in-line…? So just the way I'm trying to help Stan now, huh?

"My intents started out that way," the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy continues, "but it quickly grew to a decent friendship. He wasn't bad at all. His ripping on me turned more playful and friendly, like he wasn't totally serious about it. It was like he was almost depending on me. It was… It was great. And then he starts using me as an excuse to hurt my other friends? Why…?"

I shrug in response. "I don't know, because he was always and will forever be a sociopath? Either way, dude, he sucks. Really, if he's going to just turn you into an excuse like that… Is that really the kind of friend you want to have, Kenny?"

Kenny closes his eyes, deep in thought, and rubs at his temples. "I… I don't know. I do believe you, Kyle," he says, and I smile a little, happy that I've finally reached him. "But," he goes on, and my smile fades. "But, this is just so sudden, and after a few years of a wonderful friendship, I… I'm sorry dude, I just don't know how to react. I can't just up and completely drop him like you're saying I should. Especially since I just heard about this. I… That's why I first said I needed to think. It was about this whole thing.

"I… I walked in there, and saw you guys, and was completely blown away. I nearly got shot because Stan was so freaked out, and that shock turned into further shock at the fact that I thought I was close to losing my three closest friends. It doesn't help that there's already a rift between you and Cartman, but now it's gotten bigger, and now Stan… Oh god, Kyle. I… I really need to just sleep on this." He stops rubbing at his temples, sits up the whole way, and stares directly at me. "You're not helping me at all by trying to push me to make a decision so fast."

Now I don't know what to do. "Yeah… I guess that's true…" I trail off, starting to feel guilty for trying to force Kenny to go in my favour that quickly. He's right, he needs some time. But what am I supposed to do in the mean time? I can't go back home. I can't go to Stan. I'm scared to go to Cartman without at least Kenny making up his mind. "Yeah, you're right," I say again. "You do need time to think."

"Thanks," Kenny says, smiling a little. "Thanks, Kyle. I… Um, are you going to be going now?"

I rub at my arm nervously. "Yeah, um, about that…"

"What?"

I stare down at my feet and shuffle them. "I… I kinda… Well, I don't know what, but I guess I kinda blew up at my parents. I just… I didn't want to put up with what they were telling me—" Stop talking, Kyle. Just stop it. Don't tread into this territory. It's not going to help you. "—Well, some other factors—"

"What other factors?" Kenny interrupts.

"If I had wanted to say what they were, I would have mentioned them specifically."

"Oh."

I try to find my place once again, and I try to actually think of how I should tell him, rather than just rambling on like how I was about to start doing. "Some… other factors," I pick up from where I left off, "and the fact that what just seemed most important to me at that time – and that time is still now, too, you know – was getting things cleared up with you and Cartman. Mostly you, since I'm not too sure about Cartman. I want to wait for your word on that. But… yeah, either way, I don't think I should return home just yet… or… if ever, even."

If ever, even. Oh, fuck, I'm such an idiot. I suddenly stumble as I find my footing and stance disappearing, and my legs give out from under me, forcing me to the ground as the full force of what I just said finally and completely, actually hits me. _If ever, even._ What the fuck have I done?

"Kyle?" Kenny asks, kind of quizzically. "You okay?"

I pause in my answer. "Um…" I think, trying to figure out what to say, but something tells me to forget about it. Kenny has his own problems to think about now. That's what's essential at the moment. "What's done is done," I say. "Do you think I could just crash here tonight? I'll sleep on the floor, I'll be fine."

Kenny blinks. "Um, sure, if you really think you need to…"

I don't feel the need to change positions, then. I'm already on the dirty, disgusting floor, which is probably where I belong, actually. "Thanks, dude," I respond, giving him a weak little smile. "Don't worry about me. Just think about your own issue."

"Yeah… I'll do that." The lights go off before I really even have the chance to read Kenny's expression.

* * *

The hours pass by at a ridiculously slow pace. I feel really, really tired, of course. Who wouldn't, after all this had happened? But I can't fall asleep. I look periodically at the crappy clock Kenny has, and it doesn't seem to change. Maybe it's because it's a crappy clock, or maybe it's because time always passes by so much more slowly when you're bored out of your mind. At this point in time, I'm not too sure which it is.

My mind drifts itself back to Stan, but I quickly shake my head clear of that thought. I don't want to touch that at all. I… I already feel guilty as it is. There's no reason to add onto that guilt. It's not beneficial for anyone, least of all myself. And I already have enough problems as it is. And they probably could have all been so easily avoided, too. If only I had actually taken the time to think my actions through, this wouldn't be happening right now. None of this would have even happened to begin with if I had done that.

"Kyle!" Kenny shakes me, and my eyes slowly open. They close again right away at the blinding light, and open again slowly. I blink several times, rub my hand across my eyes, and then use the same hand to shield them. "Ahh, what time is it?"

"Dude, it's three in the afternoon," my friend informs me. I sit up and blink, trying to peer out of the window and failing.

As I wait for my eyes to adjust to the light, I decide that it's best to be straight-up forward and blunt right now. "So, Kenny? Did you make a decision?" No idea why he let me sleep in so late. Don't really care why, either. It doesn't matter.

"… No, Kyle, I didn't," is the response that I get. "One night… I can't just suddenly… In only one night? Come on, dude, this is so fucked up. There are more important things to worry about now, like Stan—"

"Don't! I… I can't… Don't mention him right now, please!" I interrupt Kenny. Each word makes me feel worse and worse once they leave my lips. "I… I just can't deal with it right now, dude. I'm sorry. I'm…" My voice trails off for a second, but then what Kenny actually said registers in my mind. "Wait. You got nothing?"

"I got nothing."

I violently throw my arms down onto my knees, causing my upper body to lean forward a bit at the process. "Fuck!" I shout out, my head jerking forwards along with the rest of my body. "Fuck! Great, what the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Kenny backs off. "I dunno," he says, shrugging. "Go to Cartman?"

"I don't want to go to his house until I have your final answer," I flatly state, doing a 180 on my emotions and tone.

Kenny just shrugs once again. "Does it really make a difference?"

* * *

That was all it took. That was all Kenny had to say. We talked a little more, though it wasn't really anything worth recalling. Then I left, wandered around outside for a little bit, and soon enough, it was the early evening, and I was in Cartman's neighbourhood. Well, in South Park, it's such a small town that it's pretty much all the same neighbourhood… But I'm in the part of the neighbourhood about the place where Cartman's house is now.

I press my hand against my forehead. "Can't believe I'm actually fucking doing this…" I sigh, "… of my own free will, too." I walk right up to his house and raise my fist. I hesitate, not really sure if I should knock or not.

But recalling the last time I was in this kind of situation, I know that I'm going to end up doing it, anyway. So I slam down my fist on the door a few times, and don't regret it. I wait, and sure enough, I soon hear whining coming from inside. I can't make out the words, but I don't really want to. It's Cartman. He's probably just whining for his mom, and I don't really care about that.

The whining stops, but the door still hasn't opened. I don't hear any sounds for a while, until suddenly the sounds of grumbling reaches my ears, and then the door opens. "What the hell do you wan—Oh. It's you."

"Yeah. It's me," I remark, raising an eyebrow and glaring at Fatass.

"Well, what the hell do you want?" he snaps right back, leaning his tubby body against the doorframe.

I grasp at some stray bits of my hair. "God, I don't even know. I guess I just have no other place to go."

Cartman raises an eyebrow this time. "So you came here…? Why? What's wrong with Stan's?"

"I—To tell you the truth, I'm a bit scared to go there." I shove my hands into my pockets and kick feebly at the porch I'm standing on. "I can't totally pinpoint it, but I was just with Kenny a few hours ago and—"

"Oh, great," Cartman interrupts me. "So what were you trying to do to him? Trying to turn him against me so that you can see me be alone and miserable and you can bask in this? Is that it?" He crosses his arms over his chest and glares daggers at me. "Yeah, well, Kyle, sorry to tell you, but—"

I can't believe he's saying these things, though really, by now, you wouldn't think that it'd be all that surprising to me. He never was all that great with his wording, though. "Shut up!" I snap out, interrupting him. "I don't want you to not have any friends because I hate you! I want you to have no friends because you're a horrible person!" I exclaim without even changing my posture in the slightest. I'm so used to doing this lecture now. "For the love of christ, Cartman, you… Mere words cannot even describe it. I'm sorry. I can't even tell you what's wrong because I wouldn't even know where to start, and who knows how long I'd go on for? You just… It's you. All you. You need to change."

"Says you."

"Yeah! And says a lot of other people, too! I mean, we're still somewhat capable of getting along, but I don't think you're even really all that aware of the extent to which you just _infuriate_ people."

I'd turn around and get ready to go, but really, I'm not too sure if I should do that. I still can't trust him. I… I still don't really know where that knife went, and just because Kenny's back, it doesn't mean…

So that brings up another thing. "Do you still want to kill me?" I ask.

"Huh?"

"You heard me," I say, rolling my eyes. "Come on, Cartman. Do you still want to kill me? Now's your chance. Right when I turn around to leave, because I knew that coming here was a mistake. Everything's fucked up for me now, but it's way better if you do me rather than me doing myself in, because I can't control the actions of others. I'm sure you could do the job right." Things aren't looking the best for me right now. Even though it's rash decisions that are what put me in this place, why break the chain? "I'm turning around now." There's no point to being here. It's completely hopeless to even attempt to reason with him. I've finally learned this, now.

I follow, true to my word, and turn around. I walk down the porch, waiting to be stabbed in the back – for real this time. Stan won't trust me. That's a figurative stab. Kenny won't take my side and see what's best and right. Another figurative stab. All Cartman has to do is really, actually, for real stab me, and I'll have been stabbed by my three closest friends (it's sad when you consider someone who wants to kill you one of your closest friends), and then I can finally die in peace, completely screwed over.

But it never comes. I don't turn around to look back for it, though – I'd rather just get stabbed in the back again than in the heart, like with Henrietta. Or anywhere else. Just… the back will be sufficient enough. I'm not going to get tricked.

"Kyle, wait!" Cartman calls out. I stop, but I don't turn around.

"What?"

"I don't want to kill you. Or Stan," Cartman says. "I don't want to do that anymore. But I'm not going to apologize for what I've done. I don't see any reason as to why I should."

With that, he slams the door, and I just roll my eyes and continue walking off. A few more steps taken lead to an increase in my temper, and I end up stomping away; fists clenched at my sides, teeth gritted, and eyes narrowed, frustrated beyond belief.


	30. Paradox

_(By the way, in case you never caught it before, I've been dropping references to the end of Cartman's Incredible Gift throughout a good portion of this fic.) And new South Park episodes are still absolutely incredible._

_And with **one chapter to go**, my weekly updates end. Sorry guys, I don't even fully know what's going to happen in the last chapter, or how long it's going to be, or how it's going to end. So in the mean time… enjoy the last cliff-hanger! It's that one bit that's kept me going for quite a while now._

* * *

I wonder what it's like.

Really, I wonder what happens to you when you die. Just… Does everything stop, then and there? Is that the end, no returns, no epilogue? You simply cease to exist and that's it? The fact that life itself happens only because of a bunch of great coincidences… Is that, in itself, even true?

What happens? It'd be so much nicer if people could know where their loved ones went, though I guess we don't have any real reason to know the answer. Since it's like that, the case is, most likely, that there's nothing after life. As nice as it is to think of an afterlife, it doesn't seem possible, and the logistics behind it are ridiculously poor. Why even bother with life, then? Besides, we should know if there is something else, shouldn't we?

But absolutely none of these are definite, so I have no idea. All I can do is speculate on it and wish that my mind would numb faster until I finally succumb to the cold.

I'd speed the process up if I could, but I have nothing to do that with.

It's… This is completely absurd. Obviously, I'm overreacting. I'm sure this can still be worked out. I mean, Cartman doesn't even hate me that much anymore. He's my only friend that _didn't_ just hurt me, yet I got frustrated with him for no apparent reason. It's just… He, I, well, I can't tolerate it, this, or him. Everything he does drives me insane and I'd like to strive to prove him wrong each time, because he _should_ be wrong each time. But he never is.

So he can do nothing and even then I'll end up just storming away from him. So I'll get pissed off, which will lead me to irrational decisions. Like the one I'm partaking in right now.

Kenny hasn't even given me his answer yet, and I'm sure it could go either way, but he'll probably just end up forming some kind of a compromise. I don't want a compromise. I want Cartman to just suffer, miserably, friendless and alone, because that's what he should get. I know that it's Kenny's choice, and Kenny's choice alone, but I'm not sure how well I can live with whatever he chooses. It's fucking stupid, but hey, whatever.

After all, where would I go back to, exactly? My home? My parents? My family? Yeah, right. They… I don't know what I would do back there. After all, I told them, right to their faces, that I'm basically a murderer, any way you look at it. How are you supposed to live with that? You're there, trying to tell your kid that he's still a great person, and then he pulls that on you. I've already started enough shit with them. I've… it would just be better.

Wow, this really isn't like me at all. I guess that's just further reason to do this. I just wish it didn't have to take so damn long. But after all this crap that I've done, I deserve no less.

Funny thing is, though, that it doesn't hurt. It's not agonizing and the wait isn't suspenseful. I'm just bored. I have very little to do right now and I'm just… _bored_. Cartman went through something like this once before, didn't he? Although he had a completely different, and, arguably, much more retarded, reason. And if what he said was true (which may or may not be possible, since you can never tell with that kid), it took him almost a whole day to work.

And I know that _someone_ has a view. I made sure to hide behind the trees this time, so that the view wouldn't work. So that I could be clearly hidden and nobody would be able to stop me, because they wouldn't know where to find me. I just wish that it didn't have to take so much time, but this is the best, as well as the closest option available for me.

At least it's a nice night.

People have all kinds of different ideas on what death is like, but I wonder if they actually follow through with their ideas and truly believe them in their final moments. Whether those final moments are calm and planned, like mine are, right now, or whether they're a sudden shock. It doesn't really make a difference in the long run, though.

But I'm sure the actual moment itself doesn't hurt. It just happens. Nothing has to be for only the good or only the bad. Neutrality is a pretty common occurrence in day-to-day life, but nobody ever recognizes it because it's the least recognizable. A good deal of the time, people don't even consider it as an option. You just have to take a side.

Of course, that's not true, though. But I don't feel like even attempting to take sides in whatever mess this is. It's selfish, and it's an _incredibly_ fucking retarded thing to do, and this is a fine example of being over reactive, but it's the easiest way out. I don't feel like going through this mess I've created. How I've destroyed my future, devastated my family, broken up my group of friends, and nearly allowed the one person more important to me than anything else in this world to be killed while standing on the sidelines and not doing all that I could to save him.

Giving up my life could have shocked both of them into stopping the fight, or it could've given Stan time, or just… Well, I wouldn't be in this situation right now. At least, if I had done that, it would have been quicker. But no, of course not. Naturally, I'm going to be restricted by human limitations and basic human desires: the animalistic ones. Survival of the fittest; the need, and desire, to continue living. It doesn't matter who else gets killed, just as long as it's not me.

And then emotions kick in, resulting in petty, pseudo-suicides like this. Because of the four things that I listed off, the final one is the one that hurts the most. No wonder he wouldn't respond to me. I let him down in some of the biggest ways possible. It's disgraceful, and despite what I've been saying regarding the last time the two of us were together… it was _not_ neutral. It wasn't. It was completely negative in every way. In every way possible, I destroyed him. I let him reach near-death (and who's to say he isn't dead right now?), and because of that, he can't act like himself, because he has to focus all of his energy on simply staying alive. So he can't think clearly. So he can't be him. So he can't respond properly or do anything right.

So I'm out here for him. Maybe our bond_ is_ too strong. Maybe everyone was right. That it's not right, not natural, to have a bond this strong. We proved that it did, in fact, end up exceeding friendship, but then it just continued. The damn thing… I don't know how it's possible. It's probably not and simply in both of our heads; and if not Stan's, then at least in mine. It's a ridiculous dependency.

To the point that it comes down to two points. If Stan is still alive, the first point, then my death is only justice. Ever since I first landed myself in the hospital – the first time that _wasn't_ for some kind of disease – Stan got messed up. Then he outs himself to me, and we hate each other. Then we get back together, then I devote all of my energy and attention to fixing myself. And now I'm in better shape than him. So my dying would set things right, if there's even anything to set right to begin with.

The second point relies on Stan having died already. This one's way simpler. After all, if our bond is that strong, and my dependency is this pathetic, then how could I live without him?

So, fucked up as it may be, I'm doing this for the two of us. I'm trying to kill myself for both myself and Stan. The reasoning makes no sense, and I don't expect it to, but it works for me, and that's all I need. It's one final bit of comfort I can take from this whole thing in stride.

I don't know why I feel the need to set this right. I just do. If only for the people that I care about, then to just make _myself_ feel better about it. Especially since I know that people are just going to end up being hurt by this decision, no matter how much I think it's the best for everyone. So really, I'm just doing this for myself, I guess. And I'm pulling up a guise at the same time, trying to trick myself into thinking I'm doing it for everyone else close to me, too.

I don't know if I'm fooling myself or not, so I continue to sit here, just waiting to die and making sure I yell at myself the whole time, all the while trying to figure things out.

It's not very fun.

I wonder what Stan's reaction would be to this if he was fully awake, conscious, and himself. If he wasn't stressed out or about to die or anything. Granted, if he was in that situation, I probably wouldn't be in _this_ situation myself, but hypothetically. I'm sure he'd be devastated. Recalling on past times when I was approaching death, he'd freak out and pull all the stops to try to save me. He'd drop his life for my own. The reverse has never been true.

So what would be up if I wasn't here right now, and if Stan wasn't the way he is right now? I'd still be dying, just in that different way. I'm not myself. Honestly. Killing people? Questioning reality – to _this_ extent? I've been freaked out over what's real and what's not before, but it wasn't in a situation anywhere near this bad.

But throughout this whole thing, and right from the start, I've let my grasp on _myself_ slowly slip away. It's been going on like that how long, now? And all it took to finally let go was one little action: that huge cut across my arm speaks for itself. It's still there. I can still see the scabs, now, as I raise my arm and pull back my sleeve to look at it. It's starting to fade, but it's still there.

And that got the whole thing set off on a snowball. This one incident had just enough force to push the snowball over the edge. Naturally, it was just going to collect more snow. And standing on top of a mountain… there's a lot of snow to collect.

Am I finally reaching the foothills, now, then? Because it doesn't look like anything is about to intercept my pathway and stop me.

But the situation isn't entirely like that. So based on how things _actually_ are, I wonder if Stan will actually care if I die or not, now. If he pulls through and keeps living, how is he going to remember me? That so called 'best friend' who completely screwed him over? He's going to remember me with hate, isn't he? The guy he nearly gave up his own life for to save, while I could do nothing but stand by the sidelines, only for me to end up killing myself anyway.

I doubt he'd even cry. I wouldn't.

Though I'll probably never even end up knowing the real result, because, of course, I'll be dead. And even then, who says anyone's gonna find me?

I can still see those remains near by. They're starting to become more and more clear, and at the same time, they're starting to fade away. I wonder if this just means that I'm approaching death. With death, do answers come? I'll find out what they mean, finally? Or is it just a retarded hallucination on my part, my mind speeding up and slowing down and trying to occupy itself with something else? That's kind of working right now.

I wonder just how well I'll be preserved, if at all. That is, assuming… Well, I still don't know how things are going to turn out. It looks pretty obvious right now, but something easily unexpected could happen. Somebody could come (yeah, right), or I could find a weapon of some sort in order to speed up my death. It'd be more painful, but less boring.

Actually, I wonder if, while those remains are still here… I wonder if I could take one of the bones or something, probably a femur, and use that. If it's still somewhat real to me, would it work? Would it be worth it? Maybe a big branch from a tree is more plausible, but that's gonna be way harder to get.

Although oddly enough, I don't even feel all that weak or frozen right now. I can still move perfectly. It's just kinda cold. I'm sure I'll never be warm again, and what I leave behind will never be warm again, either. I'll cease to produce heat because I won't be able to because I'll be completely dead.

And I won't be happy. I won't be sad. I won't be pissed. I won't be anything. That's what it is afterwards. Just… nothingness. Though really, I should NOT be thinking these things, because I don't know this for sure. And who knows what consequences there may be afterwards? After all, if there's one thing that religion's done right, it's portray whatever god there is as an incredibly cruel, sadistic, over reactive being. So if that's what it's like, then I'm probably just further screwing myself over.

Though I can't say that I don't deserve it. Although it probably isn't even up to me to begin with, to decide what it is that I deserve and what I don't.

But I'm making it my choice. It's the last one I'll ever make and I'm comfortable with that.

But _fuck_, is this taking a long time. I wouldn't care so much if it just wasn't so fucking boring, but sadly, it is. I have… fuck.

I feel the irresistible urge to beat the shit the shit out of something, so I stand up, turn around, and punch the tree trunk in front of me as hard as I can, both my body and expression fairly rigid in anger.

But once my fist connects with the wood, my body softens and ceases to be as strong. My feet skid back a little, and my eyes widen slightly at the jolt. My mouth is left open a little bit, and my fist suddenly feels much warmer as it starts to burn a little in pain. I pull back and hold my wrist in my other hand as I inspect my fingers. Aside from the nasty scar on the index finger, still there, right from back when that knife was thrown at me, they look clean. Nothing's swelling, and nothing is broken. I flex them and no additional pain springs up.

I continue to stand there stupidly for a moment, and then turn my head to look over at the corpses again. Two of the four hands – one each from a different body – are fucked up in some way, though I can't tell if it's the right or the left ones, or one of each. It doesn't really matter, but looking over every single injury and inspecting them all would give me something to do.

But I don't want to do that. I sit back down with my back against the tree trunk, effectively blocking the view of the deceased (that are still fading away, surprisingly enough), having only taken one more quick, fleeting glance over them. That's the last I want to see.

Because one of those hands _was_ broken.

Sighing, I throw my head back and look at the world and the sky up above me. The snow is falling down, thick globs of white making their way through already-white air. Well, the air looks more milky and foggy than anything else. The trees loom up above me, like in those cliché, stereotypical pictures that so many photographers take; the pine needles spreading out overtop of me, providing a poor shelter as I can still see the night sky peeking through them.

The night sky, itself, is completely dark and black. I see no stars. The moon is not visible. I'm sitting in snow-covered ground, my ass cold and wet from the snow built up all around me. Aside from my own footprints – and they are not many – it's pure and clean. The white sparkles a little bit in a few select places, but I'm not sure where the light is coming from. It can't be coming from the other bits of snow that are still falling.

It's a very winter-y setting. I wonder just how many car accidents there may be out on the road right now, or how many there will be tonight, in general. How many will there be all night, or all day tomorrow? How many deaths are gonna happen?

Providing that I'm lucky, I'll be among them – just a much less gruesome, despairing scene.

I'm starting to feel dizzy from just looking up. The trees only cover half of my vision, and the rest of it is just air and sky, but still. They're in a circular format, and just looking at them is kind of dizzying. I can see the different layers of the pine branches, and the trunks themselves. They're all so cold and stable and rigid and unmoving and unfeeling. And I'm going to be like that, too, aren't I? Or am I already? Not quite physically yet, but… it'll happen. It'll definitely happen. And if not today, some day.

But god, I hope it is today. I… I can't go on like this. I just, I just can't.

Thoughts start flying through my mind at an incredible speed, but I can't even make them out. It just… it just… oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. I… I… It won't, they won't… Fuck, fuck, fuck… I… They… I can't even…

I can't form a single goddamn comprehendible sentence in my own mind. I… Shit, shit, shit. I can't… why? Why am I suddenly feeling this coming on now? My head honestly burns with pain from this. I'd slam it back into the tree but I know that that's only going to make it worse. Way, way worse. It's just… I mean, the tree trunks aren't even exactly smooth. They're rugged and crappy pieces of shit. They're bumpy and nasty all over, and who knows what's been on them?

Oh, this is rich. I'm worrying about the cleanliness of nature as I'm waiting to die. What the hell is that? The air is dirty, too. It's not clear. The sky is dirty. It's clouded up in a mixture of dark greys. That's it. Dark greys. No lights, no black, no blue. It's like both the sky, the clouds, and the air are all trying to conspire against me to make everything feel dirty…

Oh, what the fuck am I saying? That doesn't make any goddamn sense! Great, now I'm going through… Shit, I don't know what I'm going through. This can't be a part of going through death. Not when you're nowhere near it yet and when you still feel perfectly warm and functional. I've still got hours to go. I can still move so, so freely. This is not a part of death yet.

Then why the hell am I thinking up all of this nonsense?

Okay, okay. Focus on something else. My head still hurts and my brain is in complete agony, so I'll focus on something else. The snow. The snow looks great. The little bit of wind that there is is tossing the pieces falling from the sky around gently. And geez, the pieces are so big. But they aren't too numerous, so I can still see ahead of me just fine. I don't think that's a good thing, though. This might go faster if there was more snow falling. And it would reduce the chances of anyone finding me, too.

Although that's not going to happen, of course. Nobody would bother looking for me now.

Although if they were, this place would be the obvious one where to look, wouldn't it? The place where I first tried to end my life. Why the hell did I come here, then? It's so fucking obvious. I shouldn't be making these kinds of assumptions just because I don't think that what I don't want to happen isn't going to. It still could, easily. A much more sensible place to go would be deep into the woods. They're right in front of me.

… But the last time I went in there…

I could have killed myself the last time I was in there, but I had a weapon at that time. I used it, didn't I? Damnit, why didn't I do anything good, then? Did I think that things were going to be fixed then? Is that why I didn't finish myself off?

Or is it just because I can't? I'm relying on nature to do this for me and it's going to be a while. My mind could easily change in a while and I'll end up going back to town, crawling like the pathetic guy that I am, stumbling my way through life at the moment and desperately clinging on to the hope that things are going to end up working out in the end. They won't. But I'll still end up hoping anyway. Like a complete and utter fool.

That's all I am. That's all I fucking am. And yet, I'll do it. How many times have I done this now? It's time to end. I just wish that I could actually act out a rash decision of this magnitude when I have the right mind, and materials, to.

My mind has actually calmed down a bit, though now I'm just completely unsure of what I'm doing.

This snow is deep, but not too deep… What am I doing here, exactly? Okay. Okay. I came out to the place where I first tried to kill myself in hopes of killing myself once again. There's way more stress this time than there ever was the first. This time I actually _do_ have my life pretty screwed over. Which is why I'm trying to get myself killed by freezing to death.

And when I'm gone, those bodily remains right by me should be gone, too. There will be nobody left to see them. The falling snow is covering up the pit that Stan and I dug. Even better. I won't have to see them, my own mind mocking me, when I die.

_If_ I die out here. If. I don't trust myself.

I mentally slap myself around. I'm such a coward; I'm such a callous, uncaring person. I'm worthless. I take and take and take but I never give, and my attempts at giving do more harm than good, I'm sure. Not even Stan, my best friend for years on end, could like me. He… I…

Why is it that I can express my thoughts and feelings so clearly in my mind but I can't _show_ them right now? I… I expressed a bit of anger, I don't know how long ago. I… don't know how much time has passed, it's impossible to tell. But I feel like I've exhausted all my thoughts and my emotions there already. Like there isn't anything else for me to do.

Except fucking _show_ it for once. Why won't I do that? I'll be panicked and rushed in my mind and have a blank, apathetic expression on my face on the outside and just be slouched over. Why do I let that happen? Why _does_ that happen? It… I… I…

I throw my head forward and bring my knees up to my chest. The sight of the trees, the sky, the clouds, the air, the snow, the _everything_ leaves my vision as my pants enter it. I bury my head face-first into my knees and grit my teeth just slightly as my facial features narrow in. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as I finally cry. It's not exactly cold enough to the point where my tears will freeze. It's not that cold at all. I wonder if I'll even be able to die out here in this temperature.

But I'm finally doing it. I'm… I'm completely broken, I know, but now _others_ can see that. Too bad that the one time where I'm not acting cool and confident is the one time that nobody is going to see me. I'm finally showing myself that I'm weak.

And I have nobody else to show this to. Nobody else is _around_, for chrissake. It's only me. And that's how it's going to end. Only me.

I remain frozen in this position for a bit, although I'm not actually frozen. Shame. But after I don't know how much time has passed – maybe a lot, maybe barely any at all – I finally raise my head. My arms are wrapped around my legs, pulling them in against my chest rather forcefully, but I'm not forcing my head into anything anymore. I look out, to the side; away from where the corpses would be, assuming they were real. Maybe Stan's the crazy one, not me.

… That's a laugh.

I look away from the area in general, not crying anymore, but still feeling the tears on my cheeks and knowing they're there. I wonder how ugly I look right now – I haven't seen my reflection in a while. But there's gotta be cuts and scabs and dried blood all over. How appealing is that, huh?

How much longer is this going to take? I know that I said before that there was no suffering involved in this, but right now… I have never wanted to reach something so badly in my life. I've fucked up, big time, and I can't tolerate it anymore.

I sniff and fall over on my side. Sighing, I push myself up, and brush the bits of snow off of me. It's still cold, though. This is… I'm miserable. Honestly, why did this happen? How did it? How did this really…

I start to shake, though I don't know if it's from the cold or just how awful this feels. I don't know where this sudden influx of emotion came form, but it feels good to be acting it out, even though I'm still miserable. I'm a pathetic sight. I should not be alive right now, I really shouldn't.

I cry out, just a little – like a little bit of a whimper. It just escapes. But I'm already here, just sitting, shaking, and I don't know where this came from at all. Out of nowhere, I guess? Why am I suddenly so much more torn down? I approached this completely calmly before. What the hell sparked this breakdown?

I can't even express my own feelings. I can barely show them. Either you know what it's like or you're lucky.

I thrash about violently, just a little bit, and end up slamming my back right into the tree trunk. At first I grit my teeth and mutter curses, as more tears, this time of pain, spring to my eyes, and I just don't know what to do. My swears increase in volume quite quickly until I finally yell it out.

"God DAMN IT!" I scream. Instantly, I clap my hands over my mouth, my eyes widened and looking about in fear. I hope nobody was anywhere near here, but who am I kidding? This isn't _too_ far from the town, and the sound fucking echoes. I'm surrounded by mountains. It's going to fucking echo.

I should move.

So I get up and walk out and away from the small patch of trees, limping slightly. I don't know why I'm limping, though, since I didn't even hurt my leg. I still continue to clutch my right wrist, which is still a little sore. I move out and into the open, surrounded by only snow, and look around, trying to decide where I should go. I'm a bit hesitant to enter the forest again, and I shouldn't move any closer to my town.

Maybe, if I go through the forest, I'll reach the other side, somewhere far away, with nobody else around, and there I can—

"Kyle!"

I whirl around to see Stan standing right there. His hand is clutching his left shoulder, and he's got a bit of a limp himself, I can see, as he stumbles right towards me. My legs spread further apart suddenly as I lower and come closer to the ground, but only just slightly, and I lose feeling in my arms and let them drop simply to my sides. I stare at him, mouth open only slightly, and I have no idea what to think or feel. I stop crying immediately, but don't brush away the tears. I can't.

I right myself by getting better footing, but I still can't react. All I do is stand here, dumbly, without a single real thought in my mind. I don't know what I should do. What's he here to do, anyway? What's he going to do? This isn't going to go well, is it? Of course not, but… ahh…

I don't even try to say anything. I just stare at him. He doesn't approach, but stares right back at me. I can't read his expression at all. We're too far apart. "What the hell are you doing?" he calls across, covering the distance between us rather easily with his voice. And again, I'm not too sure what to say.

But I feel ashamed, so I turn my gaze away from him. I've been doing that a lot lately. I guess I just have a lot to feel completely awful about… But I don't even know why I feel bad right _now_. I don't even know what he's doing here. Maybe it's just simple curiosity—

What the fuck am I saying? He wouldn't randomly come out here on simple curiosity. But would he come out here if he was incredibly pissed at me, then?

"… Stan?" I call back out, uncertainly. I start to back up a little bit.

"Kyle, what the hell are you doing?" Stan repeats, taking a few more steps forward. "What are you doing out here?" He's half-falling over. He's somewhat stumbling towards me, still clutching at his shoulder, his right side higher than his left. I stand stock-still. It's not that I can't move, it's that…

"I—" How do I finish that sentence? Do I actually answer him? Did he come out here because he actually cares about me, or just to yell at me some more? What the hell is he doing out here, anyway? _How_ did he get out here? Okay, so, obviously, he's still visibly hurt, but…

"Kyle?"

I can't even discern his tone. I have no idea. "What the fuck are you doing out here, Stan?" I demand, calling across the distance separating us. Take the attention off of me and onto him until I know exactly how he'll actually react to his best friend trying to kill himself. Because I can't even tell what mood he's in right now.

"That's not important!" he calls back, not falling for it. "I came out here to look for you – what are _you_ doing out here, Kyle?"

This is just going to end up going in circles. I should leave while I get the chance; he can't catch up to me. So I just turn around and start walking away, my limp gone, now. Good. "Stan, this isn't going to go anywhere. I just… I just need to go, okay?"

"Go where?" he shouts.

"Go…" Do I lie? Do I even finish the sentence? I stop walking and turn back around. I'm not sure how far away Stan is, but the snow is obscuring my vision. I take a few steps forward, towards him, this time. I see no change in Stan's body language, although I'm having a hard time actually seeing him right now.

I simply let my voice trail off. "Kyle?" Stan calls back out. He stands there, uncertainly, I think. "What is it? Look, dude—"

"Stan, why are you _really_ here?" I snap out as it finally sinks into me that he isn't really here to just look for me. There's no way. He has got to hate me. "You don't care how I'm doing, do you? I mean I—I almost got you killed, dude. Just… Just leave, would you? I've fucked everything up, and I've completely lost you now, haven't I? Let me fix these done deeds in my own way. Alright?"

"Kyle!" Stan calls back out, his voice taking on a slightly more desperate tone than before. I take another few steps towards him, and now, I'm starting to see him in a bit more clarity. "Look, dude, forget about last night! I'm… I'm sorry, Kyle! I couldn't have—You don't know how hard it is—Kyle, come here, please!" He limps forwards a bit more.

I stand there, dumbly, for a moment, before rushing forward and helping him keep his balance. He looks like he's going to topple over. I don't know if it was what he just said, or if I still care for him too much. It's that pathetic strong fucking dependency again, isn't it?

I support him and we move back over to the spot where I first was – right by the trees. Stan winces as I let him go, and he clutches at his shoulder in an even tighter grip. I rip his hand away from it and shove him backwards. "Really, what are you doing out here?" I'm so convinced that he despises me. Who wouldn't by now?

"Kyle, shut up!" he bites out at me. "Seriously! Please, just, last night… I'm sorry, Kyle! How many times am I going to have to say it? It's already bad enough for me that I tried coming out here—"

I stop listening right at that moment. So then, wait… He really is sincere about this? He came out looking for _me_, just to apologize? No way. I mean, I'd have thought that…

I still mean something to someone? That's amazing, but where do I go from this? I still can't go back anywhere. I'm still completely screwed.

I finally wipe away the tears that had been sitting there for a while. Stan, wearily, reaches for his shoulder again. His eyes are shut and his teeth gritted as he hisses through them – he's in pain. "Stan, you should go back," I say. "You shouldn't be out here. How the hell did you get out here?"

"I… snuck out of the hospital," he says. Noticing the look on my face, he continues. "Yeah, don't worry, though. I managed to find you, so we can go back now."

"Go back _where_?" I snap out, yet again, unable to control my temper.

Stan blinks in confusion and looks up at me. "… Home, Kyle," he says. "We can go back home. To South Park. Kenny and Cartman visited me in the hospital, and I think we've got everything under control—"

"_I_ can't go back home!" I snap out. "Look, it's very nice that Cartman and Kenny are feeling better, but where am I supposed to go, Stan? I've gone beyond all of you guys. I've killed people. My parents _know this_ now. Where do you want me to go, huh?"

Stan blinks again. "Well… home," he says. "You go back home. Your parents will be fine. I'm sure they still care about you, dude. What happened to counselling?"

"You're missing the fucking point!" I hiss back at him. "So what, I'm not going to be punished for killing three people?"

"One of those people was Kenny!"

"Okay then, _two_ people that will actually _stay_ dead and _never_ come back."

"… Two? I thought there was just that gothic chick—"

"Yeah, well, guess again," I snap. "That's not how it turned out. And you're telling me that I should go back, and try to get everything sorted out for _myself_? Me, me, me? Is that it, Stan? I should just focus on making myself happy and pretend that none of this ever happened? And where is the justice in that?"

Stan blinks, yet again, although this time some snow has gotten into his eyes. He rubs at his shoulder lightly. "And coming out here and running away was going to be justice?" he asks.

"I wasn't out here to run away. I'm trying to die," I flatly respond, finally fessing up. Before he has the chance to truly respond and do more than open his mouth, I continue, right away. "I can't handle this anymore, Stan. I've screwed up way too badly and this isn't going to be fixable. So I'm going for the quicker, easier solution. I _know_ it's stupid, but I just can't stand my life anymore. There's nothing wrong with life itself, just… _mine_…"

I drop back down to the ground and curl up in a ball, leaning against the tree trunk. "Just please, go away dude, and let me do this. I'm doing this for you, too."

Stan kicks snow in my face. "What the fuck are you saying, Kyle? You… don't do this! Get up." Obviously, I don't. "**Get up!**" Stan shouts, coming down to eyelevel with me. "Honestly I'd pull you up right fucking now if I could but I can't. Kyle, I am not letting you talk like this and I am not letting you believe this shit. How in the hell are you doing this for me when I want you to fucking _live_."

"You were in the hospital, weren't you?" I mutter. "You were in there. You were near-death, while your injuries haven't been anywhere near as great as mine. I've gotten hurt way more than you and yet nobody said I was 'near-death'. Nobody ever mentioned that I'd be as bad off as you seemed to be. How the hell is that fair? I've gotten away with too much and I just don't deserve life."

Growling, Stan lets go of his shoulder to push my head up so that we're staring directly at each other, eye-to-eye. "That's bullshit and you know it. I'm not that bad off. It's just hitting you way worse because you happen to care about me more than you care about yourself. Don't do that, dude. Keep yourself alive—"

"Who the hell are you to be lecturing me on this?" I lash out again, suddenly, and close the gap between our faces so we're pretty much breathing right on each other. "That fight we had, with Cartman. You were all over the place and trying to save _both_ of our asses, while I was only looking out for myself. How the hell does that fit into what you're saying, huh? You cared more about my life back there than you did for yours, didn't you? Why?"

"Because I fucking love you!" Stan snarls, and I'm sure we both catch on to just how badly the words and the tone clash. "Get it out of your head that nobody likes you! Even if your family won't take you back, even if Kenny was lying and hates your guts now, I will _not_ abandon you just like that. If you're dying out here then I'm going with you."

I roll my eyes. "You're being a fucking idiot."

Stan simply gawks at that. "Look who's talking!" He finally pulls away from me. "You don't even care how much this is hurting me right now, do you?"

"And vice versa!" I lash right back. "I don't appreciate your false words!" I slap Stan after saying that. I pull back and away from his face and slap him right on it. My hand stings and I'm sure his cheek stings, and my wrist is more sore, now, since I did just slap him with my right hand. All it does is hang there limply now, and I'm too scared to try using it again.

"What the hell?" Stan cries out, making direct eye contact with me. "What the fuck was that for? I'm not lying, Kyle! _I_ don't appreciate your disbelief and distrust! For the love of god, would you stop thinking about yourself and only yourself? Consider someone else's feelings—"

"How the hell could you still—"

"I just fucking said—"

Stan cuts himself off at that point. We both simply stare at each other, breathing a bit heavily, nostrils flaring and feeling the cold all-too-well on our faces. Nobody says anything. It's completely silent except for the bit of the icy wind whistling through the air. Finally, I stand up and start to walk away. Not into the forest, not towards South Park, just… away.

"Kyle," Stan calls out after me, rather flatly. I hear him struggling to push himself back off the ground behind me. I want to just not turn around, and to just keep on moving ahead without a second thought, but… I still do love him. I want to at least look… So I turn back around to see him just barely succeed in standing as upright as he can, although his right side is still higher than his left. "I don't care what you've done. I don't care what you will do, just as long as you don't separate us again."

Again. We both know what he's getting at. When he first confessed to being gay. And we fought then, and what it took to get us back together was an extreme hallucination on my part.

Maybe I should believe him. He did come out here, despite his current state, as well as these weather conditions. The only thing he's yelled at me for is not believing that he's being completely sincere in his words. The integrity, the honesty, the sincerity in everything about him. It's gotta be…

I sigh, and rub at my temples just a little, and start to shake with somewhat calmed, hysterical, dry sobs. I've been such an idiot.

"But dude, I still can't go back," I say, speaking up again and hoping that he'll catch on and just follow along. "So I mean something to you, but my parents… No way. I can't go back there. Even before I told them that I'm no better than a common criminal, I was still terrified of living there. I don't know why, since they haven't done anything to me." I lower my hand and allow Stan to see my face in its entirety. If he still loves me, even with this… "I can't live there if just the thought of it horrifies me. I just can't."

Stan remains where he is, but looks over his shoulder, back at South Park. "So what do you want to do, then?" he asks. "I can't just up and leave my family, I can't just ditch like this."

"So then… Maybe some day, in the distant future, we'll cross paths again?" I grin, weakly, and shrug. Stan just pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.

"Kyle, if you're going to end up killing yourself, then that's not what's going to happen. And even if you don't… You are aware of how _retarded_ that sounds, aren't you?"

"… Yeah, I am," I answer, kind of blankly. "Sorry." This scene is so awkward. Stan's right, what _do_ we do? He doesn't want to die. I want to die. Yet we don't want to be separated from each other.

Stan lowers his gaze and stares at the ground, kicking up little bits of snow. He doesn't say anything, but he's thinking. I don't know why he's bothering, though. No matter what happens, the two of us aren't going to end up getting all that we want out of all of this. It's hopeless. It's just… not going to happen.

Suddenly his kicking stops, but he remains standing there, completely motionless. "Stan?" I ask quietly. "I'm sorry…" My voice trails off a little, and I let it fade out. Silence overtakes the scene once again.

"Shut UP!" Stan suddenly shouts. I blink and take a small step back, a little taken aback by this sudden outburst. "Just shut UP!" he screams again, and I wonder what's up with that slow reaction time. What was he thinking about after I told him that I was sorry? Is it that bad? Am _I_ the one being that insincere?

He's been facing the ground this whole time, but now, he finally raises his head, his face, and stares me directly in the eye. I can see the tears present on his face this time as his arms spread themselves wide, too. He chokes on his breath for a second, and I'd move to help him, but I don't think he wants that. "Shut UP!" he shouts again, "You don't mean a DAMN thing you're saying, so just shut UP!"

"W-what?" I question, almost afraid to do so. Just when I'm ready to talk civilly with him, he turns around on me.

"All… all this!" Stan continues, still staring me dead-on. "You don't mean any of it! You've repeated your exact same mistakes over, and over, and over! How the hell could you possibly be sorry and_ mean_ it? What the _fuck_ possessed you to say such a thing? And do you honestly think that lowly of me that I'd actually _believe_ you?"

I don't give any form of a response. I don't know what to say. Really. This was… After Stan came to me so tearfully just minutes ago, begging my forgiveness, and now, he's suddenly lashing out at me. The shock is starting to wear off a bit and I'm starting to get pissed in its place. I don't exactly have a very long fuse. "What the hell are you talking about, Stan?" I answer, a small tinge of hostility now in my voice.

He stays exactly where he is, but his tone gets a little harsher. "It's all been about you! You and only _you_! Everything that's happened for the past month? You. You, you, you. Kyle, Kyle, Kyle. That's all you've cared about, yourself. You've completely neglected the feelings of those around you—"

"What the fuck do you think, Stan?" I snap, cutting him off, not willing to take a straight line of abuse. "Who else am I supposed to think about, huh?"

"Spoken like a truly selfish man!" Stan snarls right back. "Nobody else matters, just as long as _I'm_ okay! So that's ground enough for you to ignore everyone else, huh? Everyone else's woes? And everyone _else_ is the bad guy, _never_ you! No, it couldn't possibly be all of Kyle's fault! Let's ignore the fact that he's the one who's destroyed his own life, _nobody else_, and hey, how about he destroys the person closest to him, too! Huh, how about that? Let him break up a group of people who have been friends since pretty much birth, and let him blame _somebody else_! Because Kyle's perfect! He's definitely the _good guy_ here!"

I don't know how to properly respond to all of this mocking. I honestly don't. But I take a few steps forward, raising my fists in anger, just about ready to kick Stan's ass. But not just yet. He can blow the rest of his steam off, and if he's still angry by then, well… Who cares if he's hurt? I'm hurt, too. That's a fair match.

"So what the hell are you getting at, then, Stan? What do you want from me?"

"What do I want from you?" he snaps right back, raising his own fists as well. "What do I want. Well, now, it's hard to say. But I do wish that you could just go back in time and recognize what you're doing to _other people_. Causing them to worry about you—"

"Look, who are you to judge how I should treat _my_ family—"

"It's not all about your FUCKING FAMILY!" Stan screams once again, and I nearly back down. It's a little… frightening. "They're not the only ones who have the entitlement to be allowed to worry about you, you know! _I_ did! Right from the moment you got in the hospital! I didn't know you had been sick. So when I figured out that you were there, I went there. And naturally the first thought I was going to have was that you did that to yourself. You refused to go into any details. I didn't think it was like you, but you never actually said anything. So I did what any good friend would have done. I worried. I wondered why you had done something like that. If I hadn't been a good enough friend, or… what? Was it _my_ fault that you had cut yourself? Was it something else? But you weren't even willing to fucking admit it. So I questioned myself right from that point, and from then on, it spiralled completely out of control for me. And the other shit you were pulling at exactly the same time, while I was having a mental battle with myself, didn't help much, either. But of course, you were able to overlook the frustrations I had, and you were able to easily block out anyone else's problems and substitute your own in their place.

"And then you attacked me. Honest to god, we were talking about our current problems, and I felt that, _finally_, I could get you to listen to me and what was on my mind. That maybe then this would all stop for me. But _no_, you had to go and _attack_ me instead. We fought. Then things got resolved. Then you went missing, then you randomly showed up, then I nearly died, and here we are.

"And what do you think happened to _me_ during those periods of time? Not you, _me_. What do you think _I_ did? I guess I'm a little too emotional, huh? That I just need you _that badly_. Sure, it was only a couple of days. Sure, I was able to tolerate it in the first few. But after this shit kept on happening, what do you think I did? Guess how many times I attempted suicide, Kyle. _Guess._ Let's see if you can come anywhere near the correct number."

I look directly into his eyes, trying to figure out just what he's getting at. "Don't tell me that you're expecting pity from someone who's tried to kill himself before."

"I'm not," he says. "I'm not expecting any pity from you. After all, I'm _sure_ that what I went through isn't anywhere _near_ as horrifying as what _you've_ been going through." That tone in his voice, the exceeding amounts of sarcasm, they're really starting to piss me off. I raise my fists again and take on a more aggressive stance as he continues his berating me. "I'm trying to see if you can guess how much our friendship really meant to me."

"Some of those things were completely out of my control!" I yell at him.

Stan shakes his head and takes a step forward. "Not all of them, and even _then_ you fail to recognize somebody other than yourself. It's not too hard to ignore a sideline, is it, Kyle? This whole time, I was worrying about you, and I had _myself_ to worry about as well. You were dying on me so many times and I couldn't do anything about it. That hurt."

"So what was the number?" I snap, closing the gap between us and finally hitting Stan right in his shoulder. I've been wanting to do that for a while now. I am _not_ going to listen to somebody talk down on me that much and do nothing about it, especially when they won't even listen to me.

Stan cries out and completely lets go of his shoulder. "What the fuck, Kyle!" he snarls, and raises his left hand. And I finally see what he has. He's got _my knife_ in his left hand. He switches it over to his right hand and points it right at me. "Seriously, what the _fuck_."

The sight of the weapon doesn't put me off too much, since I've seen it – and been hurt by it – numerous times already. But that still doesn't quite explain, "Why the hell do you have that thing here?"

"Coming out into the wilderness? It helps to be a little prepared," he says, raising his hand and looking directly at the still blood-stained blade. "Though of course, I guess it has another use out here now, huh?" He points it right back at me.

And then suddenly he lunges forwards, and catches me, right on the arm. The right arm, to be specific. The one with that huge, long cut, right on it. And he nails it, exactly, reopening the wound and causing it to go deeper than it ever has been before. The blood starts coming out fairly quickly as I gawk. He got it _exactly_.

"You want to die, right? That's the first way you tried it, right? So is this what you want?"

The pain is incredible, but this is a whole new fucking level of betrayal. This is fucking—I can't even form a proper opinion on it. But I'm blinded by rage, and I don't think clearly. I reach out with my left hand and grab at the knife before Stan can do much else with it. The blade digs into the palm of my hand and a nasty, new cut opens up, with more blood rushing out, but I don't care. I notice it, but right now… _shit_. I switch the knife over to my right hand and go for Stan's neck. Unfortunately, I'm a little dizzy already, so I end up missing and going a bit higher than expected, slashing Stan's right cheek, starting just below his eye. I just barely missed it.

I stand in position for a bit and sway, blood gushing rather steadily from my arm and my hand. I try to shake it off, but before I can, Stan – with way faster reflexes than mine – kicks me in the gut and uses my short moment of being stunned to get the weapon back himself, punching my own face at the same time. He actually takes it by the handle, and makes another jab at me. I earn a deep cut on my right shoulder, and my arm flops down. My eyes flick over to my right side and I swear I can see a bit of the bone.

This knife is fucking sharp.

I take a few steps back as Stan takes a few steps to the side, and we circle each other a bit. I'm already feeling really woozy, so now he's doing way better than I am. And this angers me to an insane extent. Just as Stan lunges for me, I dive right under it and tackle him to the ground. I manage to grab the knife back, but I'm forced to use my left hand now, which is bleeding. If I'm lucky, the blood will act as an adhesive, and I'll be the one stuck with the knife.

I stab Stan's right hand with the damned thing, digging straight into the back of it, and then kick him over and slash the knife a few times across the back of his knees. He kicks out with one and muffles a cry of pain, but it succeeds in knocking me off of him. I fall on the ground myself as he turns over, but doesn't stand up. The snow is nowhere near as clean as it was before: we've been stepping all over it, and now, it's red with blood.

A lot of blood. From both of us.

I feel like I'm going to pass out, so in a move of a bit of desperation, I throw the knife at Stan. It cuts right through the air with its point landing only about an inch or so from where Stan's heart must be, and keeps itself there. Stan stares at it as blood starts to show itself form the area, and then retaliates by pulling it out. The blood flow increases, but that is ignored as he slashes at me. We're just close enough that all he has to do is reach forwards and he traces the exact cut on my neck.

"Did you do that one to yourself, too?" Stan asks, his tone no longer all that harsh. It's much more weakened. I open my mouth to respond but only end up coughing blood.

I'm really, really dizzy now. I'm gushing blood, and the wound on my arm, in particular, is hurting the most. He got it exactly. What the hell does that even mean?

_Both hands were fucked up._

I reach for the knife again and manage to get it with my left hand. I lunge in desperation, and hit a spot closer to Stan's heart, though I don't actually hit it, as far as I know. We struggle for a bit, and end up tossing the knife away. I look at it and realize that I'm not going to have enough strength to retrieve it. Neither is Stan.

_**Two** corpses out here. **Two.**_

I glance around at all of the snow as my vision starts to dim. The snow falling from the sky is still clean, sure, but around us, it's sprayed red. And under us, it's completely concentrated. We're both lying in pools of our own blood, unable to really get up. I'm unable to actually say anything, and if Stan can, well, he isn't using that to his advantage.

_You thought that you knew the identities, but at the same time, you couldn't place your finger on it._

I stare up at the sky. It's unyielding. It's still a dark, stormy grey.

_But they were still familiar to you. You probably just couldn't fathom who they could possibly be._

I take one last, desperate glance over to the bodies. They aren't there. We're not in their exact spot – actually quite a bit of a distance out from them – but I should still have a clear enough view. But I can't see them.

I try to look over at Stan. He's still sitting up, although he's breathing heavily. Actually, I am too, now that I think about it. My breaths are getting more and more strained, and my vision is fading faster than ever. It's not the blindness I'd be randomly hit with before, though, and it certainly isn't blood getting in my way. Looking at Stan's eyes, they're looking a little glassy.

He looks down at me and I look up at him.

_And what about those other things you somehow knew about, huh? Why'd you give Stan that gun? What was that feeling you had?_

We don't break our stare. It's hard to read each other's expressions, and we can't actually say what we feel. Or at least, I can't. Maybe I just can't hear. Come to think of it, I can't hear the wind anymore, although I can still feel it.

Or maybe that's just a general coldness.

But the bit I still can see are definitely Stan's eyes. I can't break the stare. Kind of like with…

_Do you recognize them now?_

I do. This shit that's been going on… I guess I knew it was going to happen. No wonder those corpses seemed so familiar to me. It's kind of hard to not be familiar with yourself in at least some way. And now that I can actually believe, and understand this… Yeah, I was one of them.

I don't even feel how cold it is from the wind now. I don't feel the snow beneath me, even as my body gives out and sacrifices all of its strengths and I flop down. All I can do now is gaze out at the snow in front of me; some parts red, some white. I stare out at that for as long as my sight stays with me, which isn't much longer. Things fade to black, and I feel nothing.

I guess that's what life is. It's just a big story for each of us, and once it's over, that's the end. Even if there are things that haven't been resolved, and have yet to be tied up – death doesn't care. Once it strikes, that's the end of the story. And there's no epilogue.

I hear a soft thud beside me and that's it.


End file.
